


In Every Loaf

by fenkyuubi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Eventual Female Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, F/M, Love, Love Triangles, Protective Solas (Dragon Age), Romance, Sexy Solas (Dragon Age), Solas (Dragon Age) is Grim and Fatalistic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 22,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24019222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenkyuubi/pseuds/fenkyuubi
Summary: Lavellan is changing—becoming something more, even if she feels less. In her dreams, she has two arms, no Anchor, and a power that could threaten the Dread Wolf's plans.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor & Solas, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel/Female Lavellan, Lavellan & Solas
Comments: 9
Kudos: 52





	1. A Rare and Marvelous Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> I won't be writing much in present tense - just in sequences like this. I am sorry if the flow and pattern is jarring; it's not my usual style.
> 
> I'll update as regularly as I can. This will be a little bit of push and pull between Lavellan and Solas with little bits of fluffy Cullen relationship things. Also will be revisiting old Elvhen sites, and familiar Inquisition memories :)
> 
> Later Chapters will be more M. Also Spoilers for Trespasser and Tevinter Nights.

She finds him in the most unlikely places. 

If Varric were here, he’d tell her unlikely places are the likeliest places to find things. Like a good book in a tawdry tavern, or a priceless relic doubling as a paperweight, Solas is never where you’d think to look.

She finds him in a circular room with a high ceiling and no windows. Thousands of old books, crammed together on narrow shelves, form a backdrop of browns and greens. His back is bent; neck bowed, fingers soundless as they leaf through the pages of a large tome. 

Solas’ tear-shaped nostrils flare each time he breathes, set in a nose that is not so much long as defined. The slope of cartilage, muscle, and bone are emphatic, explicit, and carve his face into distinct parts in the torchlight. The dip of his septum marks the way to parched and puffy lips that lightly shift and purse, giving shape to the words he reads from the parchment. 

He adjusts his weight—the desk groans. Legs, in straight taupe overalls, rasp as he hooks a heel across his ankle. His feet are bare. Pale, like the tunic that snags along the ridges of his spine. He reaches for the golden wig behind him with thin fingers bright with baby-blue veins.

_He’s the three royals she found in a penny box._

She realizes this is the first time she’s seen him since the ruins. 

The first time he’s whole, singular, two-legged, opaque, not a wolf, but an elf—all whetted ears and pointed chin; with a mouth that tenses into white crinkles. The first time where she isn’t running, breathless, and ugly crying, her begging sapped by old trees that hide him as he turns from her—the first time she isn’t chasing faded paw-prints in the snow. 

She forgets who she is, where she is, and unpacks her lungs with a sigh. The sound fills the air with static and hangs between them like a raven with a message. Their eyes meet, and for a moment, she forgets how to breathe. 

He regards her with confusion, surprise, then anger. The book slips as his wrists slacken. It catches on his fingertips before evaporating in a spray of dust. The room smells briefly of stale coffee and cooked wine. 

_He’s the one black pebble on a sandy beach._

“How?” he asks. His voice is clipped, hoarse—as if from disuse. When Evelyn doesn’t answer, he stalks towards her with steps that fall fast and silent on an inky floor. 

Solas jerks her arm. Hard. She stumbles, wincing as her legs cobble together at the knees. His fingers leave angry red stripes where he grips her. 

“You can’t be here. It’s not possible.” He speaks at her, not to her, as if she’s a mannequin, or a shade—a thing with no voice or feelings. Behind him, the room shifts and dissolves into thick, impenetrable darkness with no walls or boundaries. 

His fingers tighten around her jaw and guide her face towards his. As he studies her, she studies him, noting the faded freckles across his nose; his furrowed brow; the tired crow’s feet that frame his narrowed eyes. She is small under his unrelenting gaze—embarrassed. She looks away because she is older, more tired, less beautiful—and she is aging more noticeably every day. 

_He’s the sprout that grows on a busy high street._

Fingers—once so calm, so sweet—flex in a warning. Solas cajoles her eyes upwards with a gesture; she meets him. His hateful expression crumbles, exposing sad eyes and lips that could fall to weeping.

“What have I done to you, vhenan?”

The floor gives way. Evelyn is falling back, falling away. Her fingers glance across his tunic, briefly, suddenly. She’s too slow to catch him. She’s screaming—she knows she is—but the sound is muted like words shouted over a great distance.

She looks for him, but he’s gone. 


	2. Dark and Dreaming Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor by day, dreamer by night, Lavellan is growing tired of chasing Fen'Harel, who never strays far from her thoughts in the Fade. She finds an unlikely ally in her Commander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some time has passed between Ch.1 and 2; it's not a direct "waking scene". :3

Lavellan opened her eyes and adjusted to the twilight. 

Teetering on the cusp between dreams and waking, she could still hear the pitter-patter of rain, smell the heady aroma of wet earth. She clenched her hand. Instead of brittle leaves and soil, crisp Orlesian sheets snaked between her fingers. 

Tonight she visited the Emerald Graves. She hiked up Briathos’ Steps and bathed in the icy waters of Silver Falls. In the skies above the forest, she saw a Greater Mistral buffer the treetops with its wings, a hail of pine leaves bursting from the canopy as he flew. During the day, she drank Halla milk and swapped stories with nameless Dalish elves. At night, she nested beneath the outstretched arms of Mythal, her battered statue smooth with age. As she rested, she fancied she could hear the rhythmic footfall of soldiers. And when she awoke, the Dread Wolf was there, watching with red eyes and wordless approval. Until he wasn’t. 

As she eased off the bed, the memory of her gentle cries ebbed into silence. No matter what she did, how loudly she begged, the shade of Fen’Harel would abandon her, slipping from her grasp like wisps through the Veil. 

Evelyn poured water from her serving bowl and drank deep, shaking the remnants of the Fade from her mind. In the long months since the Crossroads, her dreams continued to mature. They were longer, more detailed, more vivid. No longer did she skulk through darkness and wade unwittingly through fragmented scenes, or stumble through barren landscapes pieced together by faulty memory. When she slept, the Inquisitor feasted on Bogfisher with the Avvar, scaled the rugged hilltops of the Frostbacks, and bartered with artisans in Orzammar. She dreamt of places new and forgotten, but—

_But._

Evelyn closed her eyes and tried to picture Solas’ face when last she saw him— _truly saw him_. Unlike her new dreams, which stayed with her long after she woke, her recollections of that night were vague, hazy, as if seen through eyes that weren’t her own. All she had were snippets: a gold wig, tall ceilings, and the persistent scent of old, dusty books. And fingers, hard and unyielding, against her face. 

She glanced out of the window of her modest accommodation in Val Royeaux. While her room in the Seekers of Truth’s headquarters was a far cry from the luxuries afforded at Skyhold, it was comfortable, warm, and kept out the damp. Considering their precarious position, she could hardly protest this new lifestyle. Until Haven was rebuilt, this was the safest course of action.

Evelyn eased into her official garb, shrugging the material over her missing arm. The fabric dangled uselessly by her side. She pretended not to notice—pretended not to feel the nebulous pulse of the Anchor shoot up her phantom limb—and walked into the corridor. 

It was still early morning, and the fortress would be empty. There would be no cooks darting in and out of the kitchen, no serving girls pouring ladles of gruel onto the plates of those who served the Inquisition, or the handful of Seekers that remained here. 

The dining hall, as expected, was devoid of company. The tall pillars that supported the fortress’ vaulted ceilings were lit by the glow of a few iron braziers. A handful of religious portraits glimmered on the walls, and followed Evelyn as she walked with lifeless, unforgiving eyes.

Seated on a dining bench at the far side of the room, was the Commander. Though his back was turned to her, Evelyn recognized his golden curls and the heavy fur coat thrown over his shoulders.

“Cullen?” 

She hadn’t meant to startle him, but she had. With a rustle of papers and breathless apologies, Cullen rumbled to his feet. He held his hands conspicuously behind him like a choirboy caught with dirty Chantry limericks. 

“Inquisitor,” he began, caught between a bow and a nod. She settled him with a wave. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.” Evelyn gestured to his papers. 

“Oh, I—these? Just the usual.” He licked his lips and flapped the handful of parchments in her direction. “A few reports of Qunari attacks on the Imperium from Leliana; a notice regarding the changing of the guard for the Divine; the _usual_ complaints from the Ferelden court regarding our presence in Orlais; an update on construction at Haven.” He trailed off. 

“I didn’t think an angry message from Arl Teagan would get you so flustered.”

Cullen laughed amicably and bowed his head. “I also received a letter from Mia. It seems my younger sister is with child.” He tried—and failed—to suppress a proud smile. Evelyn allowed herself to be swept away by his budding enthusiasm. 

“A da’len?” _A little one._ “That’s wonderful news. Congratulations to you and your family.”

In a flit of emotion, she reached out and embraced him. Cullen, to her surprise, returned the hug. Evelyn felt his papers fold into the small of her back with a crackle. 

The Commander smelt familiar, comforting—like worn leather, cinnamon, and flowering dragonthorn. He held her close, only releasing his hold when she relinquished hers. She didn’t leave him entirely, however, and watched him at arm’s length. She passed over his strong jawline, the faded cut above his lip, the warm honeysuckle eyes that bore into hers. Their intensity startled her, and with a polite chuckle, she moved away. 

“I suppose you’ll be taking leave soon?”

He scoffed but considered her words with a careful nod. “Soon, perhaps. Early days yet.” An anxious pause wedged itself between them.

“If you’re not busy—not that you’re ever not busy—but if you’re free, you should come with me to the Free Marches. I know my family would love to meet you.” He laughed nervously and wrung his hand across his neck. “It may not be the forests of Wycome, but it’s close to where you grew up. Perhaps we could visit your homeland, too?”

Lavellan nodded when words failed her. “I would li—love that,” she uttered in a breath, surprised he even recalled what she told him about her upbringing. “Thank you.”

_She remembers his hand around her arm. She remembered how tightly he held it._

_“At Haven… after the avalanche. I thought I lost you.”_

Evelyn chased away the memory with a frown. The pink and purple sky glowed brightly behind the stained glass windows. Beyond the high walls of the Inquisition’s fortress, Val Royeux slowly lurched into life. 

“Are you hungry?” Cullen asked, pointing in the direction of the door. “I’m not a big lover of Orlesian food, but there’s an excellent bakery I know down the road.”

Evelyn nodded. The two walked into the stirring streets of the capital together, their heads bowed as they talked, laughed, and whispered secretive things into each other’s chests.


	3. The Threat Remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition talks tactics and tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After finishing Tevinter Nights, I tried to add some items the books have used to inform the plot! Callback is probably my second favourite piece. 
> 
> Some Solas coming up next :3

“Tea?” Lace pushed the cup towards her. 

The chink of porcelain jarred Evelyn from her reverie. With a tight smile, she declined. 

“I don’t see the point of sending any more of our people to Nevarra,” Cullen said. His eyes followed the Spymaster’s figurines as she set them beside an estuary in Hasmal. He strode around the War Table with heavy footsteps and studied the map. “Didn’t you only send Charter—or whatever her name is now—to Hunter Fell last week?” 

Leliana’s tone was diplomatic but implied she would only entertain this argument for so long. “Reports coming out of Nevarra suggest some of Fen’Harel’s cultists have amassed there. Should anything happen, I am uncertain my spies have the numbers to react.” 

“We have a Grand Enchanter in the area. How many more people do we need?” His eyes softened as Lace refilled his cup. 

“I appreciate Vivienne’s continued support, but we cannot burden her with this. It’s not her fight anymore.” Her lips were puffy. Chewed on. Red and sore from biting. She collected her miniatures and paced towards the terrace. Evelyn joined her. 

The Seeker’s War Room was quaint. In a way, Evelyn preferred it to what came before. It lacked Skyhold’s floor-to-ceiling windows and regal view of the Frostbacks, but it had its charm. Meetings felt cozier. More intimate. When Evelyn looked across the iron-wrought table, she could see her advisers clearly. Their tired, sallow expressions were a focusing reminder of their efforts. 

The leather glove at Cullen’s neck rasped. His eyes flitted from Seheron to Minrathous. They continued down to the Planasene Forest, which met the Waking Sea. With a nod, he conceded. 

“As you wish. Let’s hope you’re right, Leliana,” he sighed. “I’m tired of empty whispers.” 

“When it comes to Solas, this is the best we can hope for.” The Spymaster’s cropped auburn hair glimmered in the afternoon sun. Its sheen reminded Evelyn of scales she’d once seen piled on a fisherman’s chopping board. Leliana’s nudge alerted her to the fact she was staring. 

“There’s no harm fortifying our ranks in Nevarra,” Evelyn said as she leaned over the handrail. 

Belle Marché was in full swing—packed with shoppers hauling crates of wine and fine brandy while women bartered over shoes that cost more than some dwarven relics. In the distance, the Avenue of the Sun, the city’s major thoroughfare, was dotted with promenaders that tipped performing buskers as they passed. Hidden beside the University of Orlais, was the Sweetsong Brandy Parlour, where nobility drank and played Wicked Grace till their coffers ran dry. What Evelyn loved most of all was that, no matter where you looked, there was music in Val Royeaux, streaming from ornate windows and gilded doors. 

“We’ll have to go to the theater again,” Leliana whispered. “When the world isn’t ending, perhaps?” Cullen and Lace’s indecipherable conversation droned in the background. 

The door swung open after an urgent knock. One of Leliana’s ‘birds’, a small man in a thick cowl, was ushered into the room. 

“Important message, my lady,” He pushed a folded note into the Spymaster’s hands. 

“Thank you.” Her eyes didn’t leave the parchment, not to register her underling’s bow, or to acknowledge her party’s anxious faces. She read the letter twice before addressing them. 

“It’s from Donal. There was a demon at Skyhold.”

“Sutherland?” Cullen supplemented, brow arched in surprise. “From the mercenary group?”

“They were paid to investigate a disruption there, which is problematic in and of itself. He says a more detailed report will be coming later, but—” Leliana faltered. The paper trembled softly. “It was a demon of Regret, drawn to the fresco in the rotunda. Solas’ fresco.”

Their eyes turned to her as she knew they would. Sad, pitying, considerate eyes that widened in empathy.

Evelyn swallowed against the knot in her throat and steadied her voice. This was no time for weakness—no time for regret. “Is the company alright?”

“Presumably so. Sutherland seems in high spirits as always.”

“Fine. Let me know as soon as his report comes in. If that’s all.”

Evelyn slipped past them. Cullen bowed his head while Lace stepped to one side. Leliana consulted the paper once more, gaze clouded by private thoughts. She reread Sutherland’s last line—a warning given freely by a demon born of paint and plaster—and felt concern wedge itself in her heart. 

_“I wonder if you know the dread that is coming?”_

* * *

That night, Evelyn dreamed of home. She dreamt of the Free Marches, of things that never were. Of things that never could be. 


	4. Winter's Grasp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That night, Evelyn dreamed of home. She dreamt of the Free Marches—of things that never were, of things that never could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this was fun to write. I hope you guys enjoy it! Second part of this adventure to come shortly. Get's a bit spicy towards the end, but nothing over PG-15.

“Stop picking at it.” Cillian swatted at her hand. 

Evelyn grimaced but continued to paw the fresh wounds on her forehead. The Free Marches were humid in summer and her sweat made the vallaslin itch. 

Evelyn was nineteen. In celebration of her coming of age and the receiving of her vallaslin, she was permitted to leave on her first “solo” hunt, and journeyed along the Minanter river, inland from the coast of Wycome. 

“Are you da’len? C’mon, stop picking.” 

“Why are you here again? To scare away all my hunt?”

She sidestepped out of reach and shot him another firm glower. Despite her irritation, Evelyn was glad he was here. This was her first venture into the wilds alone. Though the prospect of sleeping out in the forest made her breathless with excitement, she couldn’t shake the childish dread that gripped her. She wondered how much of the stories from her youth were true—the poisonous spiders as tall as their aravels; bereskarn who were said to steal naughty Dalish children in the night. 

The two elves labored uphill in silence, searching for higher ground. Their sandals squelched in the mud and snapped at leaves and branches underfoot. It had been a long day and the pickings were slim. Evelyn’s ingenious plan to hunt along the river yielded less than impressive results. Thus far, they had glanced by several halla, two hares, and heard a handful of unseen rodents scamper through the undergrowth. 

As they ploughed over another steep hill, a painted fox darted from the hollow of a fallen tree. Evelyn watched it go disinterestedly. 

“You know, you’re going to have to kill _something_ ,” Cillian suggested, though not unkindly. “A couple of healthy rabbits will be enough to make Eliani and the other hunters proud.”

She scoffed. “I don’t want _rabbits._ I want to bring back a beast. A tusket, or a druffalo.” The elf gestured with her hands, trying to signify the enormity of what she wanted to hunt. After a moment, her lips upended into a frown. “Do they even _have_ druffalo here?”

Cillian laughed. As they crossed a narrow ravine, he walked ahead and took her hand. Evelyn barely noticed and day-dreamed behind him, taking in sights and sounds with fickle concentration. The walls of the ravine were precipitous, and by the time they were both over its ledge, the pair were panting softly. 

“No, they don’t. And what would you do with something that big? Drag it back home?” Cillian dusted his hands on his trousers. “The best you can hope for is a nug.”

“Imagine bringing home a wolf,” she said, ignoring the quip. 

“Pray that Andruil sends you a fat hare and nothing more. Leave the wolves to Fen’Harel.” 

When the earth finally evened out, Cillian stopped. 

“Let’s make camp here,” he said with an appreciative nod at their surroundings. With a fresh supply of running water, dry land, and a thicket of trees and shrubbery for protection, Evelyn could not fault his logic. The faded statue of Ghilan’nain, partially hidden behind a wall of vines and debris, was also particularly auspicious. 

They leveled the ground with firm steps and kicked away foliage and stones for their beds. Cillian dug a hole for a fireplace while Evelyn scrounged for good kindling. By the time their preparations were done, it was dusk, and the forest had settled into an eerie quiet.

The journeyers were glad they unpacked their items when they did. They sat by the fire and waited for the dark to settle, passing food amongst themselves. Evelyn brought red berries. Cillian came better prepared and gnawed on dried meat, smoked wood-burrowing beetles, and a sweet dessert unfamiliar to the Dalish.

Evelyn reached over Cillian’s lap and fished for some cubes of meat, careful not to hit the dark bottle he turned in his hand. 

“I cannot believe you _stole_ Antivan wine from your parents,” she said in a deep breath. She spat the gristle stuck to the roof of her mouth into the fire. “Not even one, but _three_ bottles!”

“I don’t understand why you’re so angry about this. Besides, it’s not theft, not really. My father traded a shem for it. He got plenty of pelts for his troubles; pelts, need I remind you, _I_ helped collect.” Cillian washed his food down, swigging the wine straight from the bottle. 

Cillian’s father was a hunter, but his mother was a craftsman with nimble fingers and a gift of tailoring. His bed of halla wool was enviable. Evelyn studied it as he spoke and touched hers in the meantime, fingering its imperfections and patches of missing fur with hooded displeasure. 

“Besides, I brought extra in case you wanted to try some. Celebrate your ascension to adulthood and all that.”

She turned her nose up at the offer. 

“I don’t want that _shem_ stuff,” she grumbled indignantly. 

He nudged her folded arms with the heel of the bottle. As with most things Cillian related, Evelyn came round. 

The remainder of the night was spent in youthful revelry. The friends honored their childhood with stories, poking fun at their elders while they regaled one another with thoughtful expositions and boastful chatter. Though Cillian was without his lute, he sang and sang well. At Evelyn’s behest, he told stories about the Old Gods, of Elgar’ nan, Sylaise, and Mythal. Despite her lack of campfire talents, Evelyn listened long and attentively, a trait all storytellers and troubadours coveted in an audience. 

By the time the embers of the fire grew dim, Evelyn was bundled close to Cillian, their bodies hidden under his nug-lined throw. With a shiver, he pulled his covers close to his chest. 

The thorny hand of sobriety passed over Evelyn in vague, negligible ways. Her mouth was dry, and though the world remained a happy blur, the tantalizing heat of her drunkenness had all but left her body. She shuddered and reached for the waterskin.

Cillian’s looped an arm around her shoulders. It was warm and pleasantly heavy, and smelt like sweat and the wet birch of their aravels. His calloused fingertips felt like pads of sandpaper on her skin, but in truth, she didn’t mind. 

“Take my bed,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s cold, and you need your strength for the hunt tomorrow.” He tried not to slur his words. 

“Gods, no. My bed is perfectly fine, thank-you-very-much.” She was shivering harder now. She hoped he hadn’t noticed, but the grip on her shoulder said otherwise. 

“Please don’t make me bind your feet like a sheared goat. I will if it gets you to stay put.”

Her laugh was throaty. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” 

Everything changed then. Years of friendship irreversibly altered by something new and untried, but not entirely unfamiliar. As their eyes met, dozens of stories passed between them. Memories of fruitless games of hide-and-seek in an endless forest; breaking fast with cold halla milk; being scolded by parents for torn and damaged clothes while sharing sheepish smiles under their frowns; her hand in his as he guided her through a dark night. 

For the first time, an innocuous possibility presented itself. The possibility of something more. 

Cillian’s nervous chuckle did him no favors. His hand stopped moving and lingered on the top of her arm. Evelyn noted it was damp with sweat. Her wine-addled brain took a second longer to realize it was her that was sweating. Embarrassed, the elf clamored to get away in a sudden conundrum of legs, and fingers, and feet untangling and re-tangling in equal parts. Accidents were bound to happen, but when she clipped Cillian’s nose with an elbow, she was still surprised. 

“June’s cock,” Cillian muttered and cradled his face. Evelyn stumbled through a litany of apologies. She pulled at his hands, trying to assess the damage. Despite it all, she was smiling and began to laugh. 

“You evil so-and-so,” he said, the words muffled. After a moment, he lowered his guard. Cillian’s nose was red, but not broken. 

“Who’s the da’len now?” 

It happened suddenly. Cillian pushed her down on the bed, wrestling with her as they had done so many times before. Evelyn struggled and lost with an airy giggle, his strong hands pinning her wrists as successfully as manacles. They were both breathing heavily, and the Free Marches were no longer cold.

“You win,” she conceded, flexing her arms in one final attempt to earn her freedom. Her legs slid out from under her, kicking at knees and thighs as they went. Cillian did not move. Something unsaid coursed between them again. As the seconds passed, it burgeoned into an uncomfortable presence. Evelyn felt hot under her vest, and though she was no longer tired, her heart fluttered like a caged flinch in her chest. The wine returned, and her surroundings began to swim. 

“Do something,” she implored, her voice small. Blood rushed in her ears so loudly she wondered if her words traveled at all. 

When Cillian kissed her, relief fell like shattered glass around their heads. His lips were curious at first. Uncertain. When Evelyn kissed back, they grew confident. 

Cillian released her arms, giving her leave to reach up and pull him closer. She threaded her fingers through his hair before entwining, in fist-fulls, around his leather tunic. Groping for the skin of his chest and stomach, she felt her body grow weak with longing. 

And he knew it. 

Cillian chuckled into her neck. He licked, bit, and sucked her tender flesh in ways that brought a quiet moan to her lips. When he reached under her clothes and fished for a breast, her sounds were no longer quiet. 

Behind the haze of wine, passion, lust, confusion, and nervousness, something called out to Evelyn. A nagging, not unlike the feeling of forgetting something important, roused her. Though she tried to drown the sensation with kisses, it lingered. 

Then she remembered: this wasn’t quite how it happened. 

Where was the nervous laughter? The gentle whispers? The tender way Cillian stroked her cheek; the way he blushed and apologized as their first kiss ended in a bruised lip and sore teeth? The rush of being touched for the first time was there, but Cillian caressed her with unnerving precision, with a thinly veiled proficiency that didn’t make sense. 

He bit the nape of her neck hard. Desire flared in her core and clouded her mind, suffocating her concerns in a pulse of heat and yearning.

“Beg me,” he murmured. His mouth sought hers, tongue weaving, folding, pushing; turning her protests into shapeless gasps in her throat. His hands were firm, insistent. Urgent.

He tore at her vest. It snagged, then ripped, exposing her chest to the cold. “Tell me you want this.” 

“I—can’t.” Her objection tailed off into a purr as Cillian slid his hand up her inner thigh, his breath hot and rushed against her jaw. He felt angry, Evelyn thought. Defeated. His emotions had a palpable weight and form, as real as the fingers that kneaded her flesh. The thought only distracted her long enough to breathe; a harsh, ragged gulp of air that hitched in her throat before she was swept beneath waves of desire once more. 

“Accept me,” his voice said, in a cadence that pricked her skin with icy webs and rooted her to the bed. It made her teeth chatter and sapped the strength from her arms and legs. Evelyn tried to open her eyes, but couldn’t. 

_I can’t._

_Why?_ Cillian’s question reverberated in her skull—no, not Cillian’s. Something else. Something twisted. It was his, but spoken with another’s tongue, lungs, and lips. Lust shifted, changed, and morphed into fear. 

The _thing_ began to chuckle. It rumbled into a discordant, static laugh that seemed to cool the air around it. She felt it on her neck, her chin, her ears—a frigid, lifeless sigh that stung like winter snow around her wrists. 

“I know what you want,” it whispered hauntingly into her ear, a note of satisfaction ringing through its words. It was as if it glanced into her soul and plucked her deepest darkest secret; tore open her heart and named the colours of her despair. Fingers tightened around her neck, holding her in place, steering her breath. Desire crept up her frozen limbs as its hand snaked beneath the band of her trousers. Its lips were wet against her lobe; voice a lazy drawl. 

“Ar lath ma, vhenan.”

“ _Enough_.”


	5. Winter's Grasp P2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreaming in the Fade is dangerous. Evelyn experiences that first hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing from where we left off in the last chapter. We get to see our beloved egg - albeit, for a short while! I had kind of imagined interactions with demons might feel a bit like sleep paralysis. I wanted Evelyn to experience that in the Fade, too.

“ _Enough_.”

Evelyn felt warmth seep back into her skin. She wriggled her fingers. Her toes. She opened her eyes. Cillian’s face was turned away from her, staring into the gloom. Even so, she could still make out his slack jaw and wide eyes. It was her Cillian, but not really. Long hair, broad shoulders, girlish lips, bronze skin—it was a detailed likeness, but wrong. Flawed. Painted by imperfect memory with all its kinks and forgetfulness. For the first time, Evelyn saw the mask and the nebulous thing that wore it—and it was scared. 

It hovered over her, arms straight, back arched. A sonorous hiss warbled in its throat.

“ _Ir abelas, harellan_.” It spoke with lips that didn’t move, in a tone no mortal man could muster. “ _Lanaste_.” 

It was the last thing it said before it vanished, plucked from existence in a whistle of wind. 

Evelyn blinked up at the sky where Cillian’s face had been, deaf to everything but the blood that roared in her ears, the breath that wheezed from her lips. She tried to move and failed, her arms and legs still gripped by a paralytic force that pinned her to the ground.

When Solas pulled into view, she could barely muster the energy to be surprised. Even in the dark, she knew his face, the slope of his shoulders, the length of his ears. He hovered over her, his expression veiled in shadow. 

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked as he squatted down beside her. 

Evelyn flinched. 

“I am not a demon.”

She gave a hoarse laugh. “That’s exactly what a demon would say.” Her mouth was dry. Ashy. It hurt to speak. 

“A fair point.” She could hear the smile in his voice.

With a tender hand, he touched her arm, smoothing goosebumps and dusting dirt from her skin. He worked his way to her neck before he stopped, his fingers curved like wilted petals over the jut of her collarbone. 

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with. _Ma ane aron a esha'lin._ ”

Solas’ forlorn sigh sent her heart rattling in her ribcage. It was the sound of a disappointed parent—she knew it well. It was the sigh her father used when she’d broken her bow; her mother’s groan as she exposed scraped, bloody knees from a fresh fall. 

As he folded her torn vest across her chest, careful—ever so careful—not to touch her skin, a childlike sob broke from her lips—the first of many. Solas stroked her hair and calmed her with soft coos. It wasn’t soon after that a comfortable heat swept over her, followed by an irresistible urge to sleep. 

“What’s happening to me? _Telharthan_ .” Evelyn turned her head as much as she could. Her eyelids fluttered, straining to stay open.  
  
“I’m not sure, _vhenan_ ,” he said. His head turned to the forest. “There is not enough time to discuss these matters.” 

There was a dull thud in the distance, a thud muffled by space and time. There was one. Then there were several. 

* * *

Evelyn woke with a start. The rhythmic thump of fist-on-wood was relentless. 

She rushed to the door and fumbled with the lock. Cullen’s caught his hand before he flung it at the air. His eyes were bright with worry. 

“Inquisitor?” he said, his relief palpable. He searched what little of her room he could see with wild looks. “Are you alright?”

“I—I’m fine, Cullen. Has something happened?”

The Commander signed and leaned against the door frame. 

“By the Maker, I thought you were being attacked.” 

She stared at him quizzically. 

“You were baying like a whipped Mabari, Inquisitor,” Cullen said, his brows arched in amazement. “I’m surprised you didn’t wake yourself up from it.” 

Her memories rushed back to her in a pulse of sights and colors. She pictured Cillian’s cheerful face and felt the stamp of Solas’ fingers on her arm. Gingerly, she reached for her neck, convinced she would find the wet imprint of lips there. 

“Bad dreams?” he ventured with a knowing look. 

Evelyn intimated in a throaty, veiled murmur that was the case. 

“I have some herbs that could help with that.” He reached up and squeezed her shoulder, searching her countenance for information, as if he might pluck the heart of the matter from her furrowed brow or tightly pursed lips. When Evelyn didn’t answer, he pulled her into an embrace. Soon after, he felt tears stain his thin sleeping shirt. 

“Talk to me, Evelyn,” he muttered before planting a chaste kiss on her head. “I’m here for you, no matter what.” 

At her insistence, Cullen spent the rest of the night with her. He cradled her back into his chest and breathed stories into her hair. When asked, the Commander talked about his family, describing Mia, Branson, and Rosalie in turn. He described the lakes, valleys, and people of his hometown; he spoke of Honnleath with the considerations of a young boy. 

Somewhere between their idle chatter, they both fell asleep. Cullen dreamed peacefully of home. Evelyn drifted in and out of consciousness, subjected to fitful bouts of rest over in the wink of an eye. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ir abelas, harellan - I'm sorry, trickster  
> Lanaste - Mercy (also a distant cousin of namaste)  
> Ma ane aron a esha'lin - You are like a child  
> Telharthan - I don't understand


	6. An Unexpected Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen isn't spontaneous, Evelyn hates surprises. Sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of fluff for ol' Cullenancers.

It was a well-known fact that Evelyn abhorred surprises. She hated the unrehearsed, the unscripted, and the improvised in all its possible iterations. She did not like surprise raisin cookies, loud noises, or silent rogues, nor did she care for anonymous letters, rain on a clear day, or new ingredients in her rabbit stew. Evelyn disliked unforeseeable plot twists in novels, untried arcane magic that fizzled and popped, and unannounced visitors. But most of all, Evelyn loathed impromptu dates she never saw coming. 

Consequently, when Cullen invited her to dinner, Evelyn was the picture of worry. To make matters worse, he asked her—loudly and very clearly—on a busy street in Val Royeaux on route to the bakery. If she had rejected, half the nobility on the road would have swamped him for the privilege—and trampled over a cripple for it, too. However, if Evelyn was honest with herself, the threat of being squashed came second to the stirring in her heart that urged her to accept. 

“I must admit, Cullen,” Evelyn said, tossing what remained of her cupcake wrapper into a nearby bin. “Your proposal this morning was surprising.” 

It was almost midnight, and the Avenue of the Sun was uncharacteristically desolate. 

Under the torchlight, the Commander’s blush was a warm shade of crimson. He studied their reflections in the windows of passing shops. 

“I’m sorry. I know how little you care for ad hoc things.” He fixed her with an apologetic smile. Evelyn noticed that his nose was beaded with sweat despite the crisp evening breeze. 

“Don’t. I had a lot of fun.” 

In fact, Evelyn couldn’t remember the last time she enjoyed herself to this extent. At sunset, they met outside the Seeker Headquarters and took the long route to an old eatery popular among the locals. In their matching velvet uniforms, which spoke volumes about the pair’s lack of social wear, they dined on some of Orlais’ most popular dishes. They started with butter soup, and worked their way through a nesting roast—a quail in a pheasant stuffed in a swan. Cullen struggled with his dessert: a pie made with apples from the orchards of Ghislain, which came with the story that it was once blessed by the Maker at Andraste’s request. Evelyn munched on tea biscuits and jam and ordered a frilly cupcake to go.

As they ate, they spoke, and as they spoke, they drank, steeling their nerves with liquid courage. After the first bottle of spiced wine, there were giggles. After the second, their guffaws filled the room. The Commander spoke long and thoughtfully of his years before the Inquisition, evading dour questions about Kirkwall while reminiscing about his childhood escapades. Evelyn listened and supplemented with rapt commentary when needed. By the time they stumbled back onto the streets, it was quiet in Val Royeaux. 

Cullen sighed and staggered, bumping shoulders and brushing hands as they had done for most of the walk. The wine had not worn off. 

“I thought, with how busy you’ve been, you’d enjoy a bit of distraction.” 

Evelyn smiled. _Busy_ —Cullen’s polite way of saying troubled. It was no secret that she hadn’t been sleeping well. It was written on her face, in her sunken eyes and frequent yawns. Though her journeys through the Fade were seemingly innocent—a campfire in the Hissing Wastes, snow at Haven—she would shake herself awake, terrified of what could be lurking in the gloom. 

“It was lovely—unexpected but lovely. I'd like to do it again sometime.” Behind a row of mid-rise apartments, the spires of the Seeker of Truth’s headquarters loomed. Both slowed their gait as they neared their final destination. 

“Honestly, I didn’t think you would accept. It was a spur of the moment decision, something I am loath to do.” Cullen rubbed his forearm and gave a rueful smile. His eyes were tender. “I’m glad I did, and I’m glad you said yes.”

An Inquisition soldier was sitting on the steps, under the light of a brazier. Evelyn focused on him as she arranged her thoughts and calmed the flutter in the base of her gut. The feeling itself was unanticipated, as much as this whole ordeal was—and she suffered it as poorly as any other surprise. 

What was Cullen to her, she wondered. She considered their years of friendship: Haven, the rebuilding of Skyhold; their battle at Adamant; his struggles with Lyrium; chess—their history was rich and tangled, but otherwise platonic. It was not like anything happened, _could_ happen. Not while _he_ was still there. But _he_ hadn’t been there for so long now... 

Cullen grasped her arm, stopping her in her tracks. His brow was furrowed, lips in a frown. She could see him puzzling over her, observing her like one of his maps in the War Room. He was close enough to taste the wine on his breath. 

“I—”

“Inquisitor.” 

The voice was quiet but very close. Cullen and Evelyn looked round to stare at the young boy, another one of Leliana’s, who had pulled up from the steps to greet them. His eyes were red with fatigue. In his hand was a small letter with a broken wax seal. 

“Leliana asked fer me to give it to yer as soon as yous got back.” When Cullen cursed softly under his breath, he shrunk away. “‘He said it was important,” he added with a thick Starkhaven lilt. 

Evelyn felt her chest deflate as she reached for the note. _Another surprise._ When she recognized the seal’s crest, her spirits lifted. 

“It’s from Kirkwall.”

“Varric?”

She skimmed the content. “There’s to be a party. He says the ‘old gang’ is coming and thinks it will be useful to catch up. I’m sure there’s more to it, he’s just not saying it on paper. What do you—”

Cullen’s lips were warm, welcoming. They swallowed her words in a vacuum, forcing her to hum uselessly in her throat. In that short moment, there were all sorts of warring emotions. Panic and nonsensical guilt were first, followed by surprise, and shortly after, the nascent gripes of longing. When he pulled away, he was smirking, the faded cut on his lip no more than a thin crease. 

“I’m kind of enjoying being unexpected,” he murmured. 

Evelyn grinned a wolfish smile. 

“I’m beginning to like surprises, too.”


	7. Tarasyl’ an Te’las

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition leaders get on a boat. Evelyn struggles to stay awake. Solas finds her when she's not looking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little non-canon here, as Skyhold wouldn't have had the fortress when the veil didn't exist. But I wanted a place!

The boat groaned and lurched as the waves of the Waking Sea cracked against the hull. It had been three days of this—three days of seaspray, lousy weather, and worse food. Kirkwall couldn’t come sooner. Evelyn adjusted the cushions at her back and reclined. The bench was firm and uncomfortable, but she had gotten used to the dull ache at the bottom of her spine. 

Leliana cleared her throat and turned the page of her novel. An oil lamp creaked above her. As it swung, it partitioned the sides of her face in light and shadow. Beside her, Cullen snored gently, arms folded, chin on chest. The sight reminded Evelyn of how tired she was, not that she needed reminding. 

She stifled a yawn and tugged at the shawl on her shoulders. It was cold—persistently so. It pricked the hairs on arms and shuddered down her skin in undulating waves. It was a cold that emanated from her core, born of fatigue and exhaustion. No matter what she did, how many layers she wore, it never truly went away. There was only one cure for it, after all: sleep—an activity the Inquisitor had become well versed at avoiding. 

The boat heaved and rocked in a gentle rhythm, sending bottles of Antivan wine rattling in their crates. Evelyn’s eyes grew heavy. She watched her Spymaster, observing the way her small toes wriggled in anticipation as she turned the page, her brow creased in concentration. The sight brought a smile to the elf’s lips—it filled her with joy, warm, homely, and familiar, like the opening line of a favorite song. In her comfort, Evelyn’s eyes fluttered shut. Leliana’s purr of laughter was loud and distant all at once. 

* * *

When Levallan awoke, the luminous Great Hall of Skyhold nearly blinded her. The sun shot lances of light through the room’s painted windows, bathing the auditorium in a golden glow. Scattered around the hall was an assortment of artwork, statues, and tapestries—all of Elvish design. Stony eyes looked down in quiet judgment from high niches; busts of Mythal, Elgar’ nan, and Dirthamen gleamed with a fresh polish. A mosaic depicting a group of elves bathing peaked behind the throne. 

Despite its vibrant decor, Skyhold was silent and devoid of company, empty in a way no fortress should be. Thousands of people had walked these halls during the peak of the Inquisition. Their conversations rang through the corridors, embedded themselves in the walls, and gave Skyhold its character. This iteration had none of the charm she was accustomed to. It was hollow—a museum for relics from an ancient time. 

Evelyn was not alone, however. From the open door of the rotunda came the echo of footsteps. Egged by curiosity, she looked inside. 

The rotunda was as she remembered. Three stories of stone silo that climbed high into the sky. The gateway to all locations, it was always a place of movement. Whether she was visiting Leliana in the rookery, on her way to Cullen’s office, or sauntering to the main hall from the courtyard, the rotunda was its own focal point—Skyhold’s personal Crossroad.

Solas tutted to himself and brought the brush-tip firmly against the plaster. Though his back was turned, she knew he was scowling. Evelyn had watched him paint his frescos many times—an ode to her great work, he called them. She liked to think of them as gifts, his own brand of affection. That was before, when he was still Solas—when she still had both arms. The anguish gnawing at her gut did little to curb the grip of nostalgia that seized her. As she took in the modestly decorated room, she caught herself smiling at his small writing desk, at the mess of brushes strewn across the table, some of which glistened with wet paint.

Solas flicked his wrist. Two small braisers hung from the walls in the far corner of the room erupted into flame, illuminating finished murals that clawed their way to the top of the tower. The paintings depicted wars, forests, temples, cities, and animals. Some scenes she recognized—many of them she did not. Her eyes lingered on what she presumed was a self-portrait: a six-eyed wolf with jagged teeth wet with saliva, jaws hovering ominously around an orange sun.

“Painting in the Fade is curious,” he said suddenly. If Evelyn weren’t familiar with his cadence, she would have assumed he was talking to himself. “It’s one of the few activities I prefer in waking life. The paint is brittle here. It dries too quickly.” 

Evelyn answered with a sigh. It was painful to see him like this—to see him at all. There was a particular note of cruelty in these meetings, an undercurrent of guilt and disappointment that pervaded the joy of seeing him again. He was here, but not here; close, but not close. It was complicated harboring feelings for a dream, for the shade of what was. 

“Where are we?”

He glanced over his shoulder, palette hinged on his fingertips. “Skyhold.”

“Yes, but it’s not my Skyhold, unless I somehow forget the existence of a twelve-foot tall sculpture of Mythal in the Great Hall,” she said with a wry smirk. 

Solas turned to deposit his tools on the table. As he walked towards her, Evelyn backed away. 

He stopped, folding his arms behind his back. 

“I am not a demon.”

“How can I be sure?” She pictured Cilian’s face. The memory of his metallic lilt sent a shiver down her spine. 

“You can’t be, not yet.”

“I’m to rely on good faith then?” Evelyn snorted. “Isn’t that what got me into this mess in the first place, Dread Wolf?”

The tendons on his neck tightened at the name. “I’ve hurt you, my heart,” he started in a low, quiet voice. He unfurled his fingers imploringly towards her, reaching for her like a nervous child. “Vhen—”

“Don’t.” Her tone was sharp. She would not let him sway her with endearment. Not now. Evelyn had missed him—she had missed him as crops do the sun after a long winter. She missed his wisdom, wit, and council. She missed his soft hands and soothing voice, his fingers in her hair. Seeing him now only confirmed what she already knew, the guarded secret of her heart: she loved him still. But this did not excuse him. Her love had been tainted, steeled by disappointment and fear. Of not having been enough to steer him from his mission. The notion kept her grounded. 

They mapped the passage of time with their heartbeats. Then, slowly, deliberately, the Inquisitor closed the gap between them. He tensed in surprise but held her gaze. 

“I have questions and need answers. I’m assuming that your appearance here and now, after avoiding me for so long, is indicative of your cooperation?” 

“It had not been my intention,” he said cautiously. “I did not wish to interfere.” He faltered and averted his eyes as if to shield his private thoughts. “You’re changing, Inquisitor. In a way I could not foresee.”

“That’s comfortingly vague,” she ventured when Solas failed to continue. 

“You’ve shown a talent for Dreaming that is scarce at the best of times. For it to develop in an adult with no magical abilities is unheard of. You cannot blame me for being curious, for wanting to watch as you explored the Fade.”

“I can and I will, Solas. I hold you to a higher standard, fool that I am.”

He gestured to the closed door that led to the fortress’ battlements and waltzed towards it. Evelyn fell into a slow, even gait beside him. She glanced at the fresco and considered Donal’s letter. 

“Perhaps I can make good of your trust,” Solas said. He pushed open the door and extended an arm towards the allure of the castle walls. “If you let me.”

Evelyn tried to speak and failed. She willed her tongue to weave intelligent words but only managed to gurgle like a babe.

Above her, the emerald glow of The Fade replaced the sky. In it, she saw distant lands, forests, oceans, and cities swirl and tremble in an infinite expanse that stretched beyond the horizon.

“As you can see, Tarasyl’ an Te’las was quite different before it earned its name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tarasyl’ an Te’ las - the place where the sky was held back


	8. Tarasyl'an Te'las P2

Evelyn lost track of how long she spent staring at the veil-less sky. It was only when Solas let out a low chuckle behind her did she remember her escort. Solas’ thin smile and watchful gaze were a comfort—the one familiar thing in a vastly different world. When he glanced up at the heavens, his blue eyes shimmered into green. 

“No matter how many times I see it, the sight takes my breath away.”

Evelyn swallowed against the dry knot in her throat. “Is the Vir Dirthara up there?” She searched the sky with a growing appetite for what lay beyond, pupils darting from cragged castle cliffs to suspended waterfalls in hopes of identifying the places she had only heard of in Dalish tales. She licked her dry lips and felt the hairs on her neck tingle. Solas’ eyes were on her, burning into her back. 

“The library? Yes and no. It is suspended between this world and the Fade, much like the Crossroads. It is its own nexus, a place that all Elvhen can access. But the Evanuris built in both worlds, as you can see. They explored the deepest reaches of The Fade, constructed monuments, temples, castles, both in this world and the next. A testament to their power and dominion over all things.” 

As she watched and listened, Evelyn thought of her modest Dalish home, the firepits, the landships, the tired wooden bows, and iron swords, and felt ashamed of her former pride. How naive her ethnocentrism must have appeared to him. How offensive. Her people wore their slave marks with glee, delighted in their grasp of broken Elvhen, and clung to splintered memories of a past long forgotten. She touched the place where her vallaslin once was and frowned. 

“Would you like to see more?” he offered. 

Evelyn followed as he led them down Skyhold’s walls. On their stroll, he pointed out the names of temples and strongholds, speaking in equal parts fondly and terribly of the Evanuris. He named rivers, mountain ranges, and suspended waterfalls, and wove short stories about each in turn. He spoke to her of the Fade, how it was always shifting, and how the sky today would not be the sky of tomorrow; that the dreams and wishes of the Elvhen set it in constant motion. 

Solas stopped by a parapet and indicated for Evelyn to join him. 

“The Frostbacks are unchanging,” he said meaningfully and leaned closer to observe them. “Sometimes, in my dreams, I cannot tell what is past and present. If I stare out into the mountain range, I can almost convince myself that I’ll hear you shuffling past with Cassandra or Josephine at your heels.” 

Evelyn heard the echoes then. The dull footfalls of a dozen people. The laughter of unknown faces blurred by time and space. She heard an echo of herself call out to him, the murmurs of a would-be romance. 

_“It would be kinder in the long run.”_

Solas' ears gave a subtle twitch. She knew he heard it too. 

“How is this all possible, Solas?”

“It shouldn’t be,” he said simply. “When I retrieved the anchor, your attachment to the Fade should have dwindled. You are not a mage, not a dreamer—there is no explanation for your ability to harness the Fade.”

“You told me once that most Elves and humans enter the Fade when dreaming,” she argued. 

Solas shook his head and pushed off the parapets. He stared at her, observing Evelyn with cold, distant eyes, like a scientist analyzing his latest experience.

“You are not most Elves, and this is not usual dreaming.” 

“You sound like you have an idea as to why this is happening.” 

“A few.” Solas smirked. “At first, I believed the destruction of the Foci was the source. The blast might have altered you in some way, but the effects would be further reaching, affecting all those that fought beside you against Corypheus.” 

In one swift move, he took her arm, the one he had once removed. He held it firmly, weighing it as if it were a loaf of bread. “I considered that what was more likely, was some vestiges of power still lingered, even after I retrieved the Anchor.”

Evelyn retracted her limb. “That Anchor was my arm,” she said bitterly. 

He scowled and released her. 

“I believe,” he continued in a level tone, “the Anchor has changed you, body and spirit. If it was a fleeting side-effect, your connection to the Fade would dwindle. From what I’ve observed, the opposite is true: your attachment is only growing stronger.”

Solas’ expression was proud, like a mother whose child had just learned to walk.

“How is that even possible?” 

Solas shrugged. “Magic is not always an exact science.”

“So what does this mean, Solas?”

_“It means I have not forgotten the kiss.”_

“For me?” she added, ignoring the flush that speckled her cheeks. 

“It means a great deal, Inquisitor, though I cannot say with certainty to what extent,” he rubbed his face and pondered, retreating into his own thoughts—though not for long. Soft voices, quiet but urgent, drew their attention. 

As Evelyn looked around her for the source, Solas’ hand cupped her jaw, coaxing her attention back to him. The Inquisitor’s impulse was to jerk away, but something in Solas’ gaze mollified the urge. 

“We have run out of time, vhenan.” He thumbed her cheek. “There are still so many things I must show you.”

The elf’s face began to swirl, his voice grew muffled. Behind him, Skyhold and the Frostback Mountains were cloaked in a white mist that blurred all definition. As her vision began to fade, the warmth of Solas’ hand lingered.  
  
“Solas, wait—” 

* * *

“Solas?”  
  
Evelyn struggled to open her eyes. With the groan of confusion, she blinked back the blur of sleep. Footsteps thudded around her.

Cullen’s brow puckered, lips opening and closing like fish caught on a line. When the Inquisitor came to, he forced a meek smile.   
  
“Apologies for the disruption,” he said as he retrieved his hand from her shoulder. “We dock in Kirkwall within the hour.” Behind him, Evelyn saw Leliana’s scowl with disapproval. 


	9. Friends in High Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang arrives in Kirkwall!

A heavy mist weighed over Kirkwall, concealing much of the Vimmark Mountains and the elevated city center from view. Evelyn shielded her eyes as she peered into the sky, only stopping to make way for disembarking sailors and Inquisition soldiers.

“Easy now,” Cullen’s voice rumbled behind her. “Not too many of you at a time.” He watched the steady flow of recruits unloading crates of goods onto the docks. His face contorted in worry as the gangplank groaned under their weight. Evelyn reached out to steady him, and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze before getting off herself. 

It was midday and Kirkwall’s docks were ripe with the sound of city life. Along the port, dozens of fishermen tended to their nets and boats. Some tended to their quarries in their wharf, while others mulled over their size of the catch by consulting long, tattered parchments littered with unidentifiable scribbles. A few suppliers haggled by their boats, waggling fingers and shaking heads as they discussed methods of payments and bartered rates. A few Inquisition officers were already hard at work, deep in conversation with merchants who tugged their beards and gave frequent, jittery nods. 

At the end of the pier, overlooking the blue-grey stretch of the Waking Sea, was Varric. Dressed in ordinary apparel, the storyteller meshed well with his surroundings. Bar the entourage of fussing councilors quarreling behind him, there was little distinguishing him from the rest of the dock’s denizens. As Evelyn approached, Kirkwall’s political posse lowered their voices and gave anxious bows. 

“Enjoying the sights, Viscount Varric?” the Inquisitor said, trying her best to ignore the not-so-subtle glances her missing arm awarded. 

The ginger dwarf turned on his heels, wiping sea-spray from his brow as he went. Though his face was a little more lined and his beard flecked with spots of grey, Varric’s bright eyes and easy grin were a welcomed constant.

“You took your sweet time. I was about ready to throw myself in the sea from boredom.” He clasped Evelyn’s hand in a firm shake. 

“Sorry. There were some delays on-boarding our shipments.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I should have assumed some Inquisitor-ial shit would pop up.” To his right, a tall, dark haired gentleman dressed in overly embellished robes made his presence known with a discreet cough. Varric chortled with apology. “Ah, you remember Ex-Provisional Viscount Bran—he accompanied me to Harrenshiral for the Exalted Council.”

The man in question sighed as he took Evelyn’s hand. “ _ Just _ Bran if you please, Inquisitor.”

“Lovely to see you again,  _ Just  _ Bran,” the elf returned, much to Varric’s amusement. Bran’s hollow laugh never reached his eyes. It was clear his long tenure as Tethras' advisor had inured him to the usual bad jokes.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here before I wet myself. All this sea-breeze and water does my bladder no good.” Varric led Evelyn with a hand on the small of her back, careful to steer her away from the frothy waves that broke against the pier. 

It wasn’t long before they met with the rest of Evelyn’s party. Cullen, who had dressed down into his trousers and undershirt, held his heavy cloak under one arm. His cheeks were rosy, and dark spots of sweat had formed under his arms and chest. When Evelyn waved for his attention, his blush only deepened. 

“Curly!” the dwarf exclaimed, going straight for a hug, despite Cullen’s protests. A few bystanders had gathered, and watched the exchange with interest, unsure what to make of their Viscount and his guests from across the sea. 

Cullen muttered a greeting and patted Varric awkwardly. When they broke away, the ex-Templar laughed and touched his face, patting the growth of hair around his chin and neck. 

“Is that a beard I see, Varric? Have you finally come to adopt your people’s rich facial-hair heritage?”

“Hah, hardly. Just makes it easier negotiating with stone-dwellers when you look the part.” The Kirkwaller greeted Harding and Leliana with equal gusto before leading the party through the rapidly growing crowd. “Let’s get you cleaned up. The rest of the gang are ready and eager to meet you.” 


	10. Hard in Hightown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parties, Enchanters, and dresses - Oh My!

The Viscount’s Keep was grander than Evelyn envisioned. With its towering pillars, even grey walls, and impossibly high ceilings, the fortress was every inch a dwarven thaig: structured, elegant, and timeless. Decorated with Templar plates of armor and portraits of past viscounts, a few Tevinter relics—remnants of a forgotten time—hid behind velvet tapestries and conspicuous white sheets. When Evelyn inquired into an enormous marble dragon she saw in the foyer, Bran sneered and shook his head. 

“Tevinter.”

“An age or year would be nice.”

“Tevinter, in the year of Tevinter,” Bran said with a wry smile. Evelyn chuckled. _Guess he has a sense of humor_ , she thought. 

While most of their forces were stationed in the southern wing, Cullen, Leliana, Lace, and Evelyn enjoyed adjoining rooms in the eastern wing, down the hall from the throne room. Unlike her quarters in Orlais, with its small, square windows, wobbly writing table, and nondescript double bed, her temporary home afforded its own bath, a four-poster heather bed, a crystal washbowl, and a private terrace overlooking the main street of Hightown. While the decor was more lavish than her tastes allowed, the change was welcome. 

It was evening, and after an exceptionally long bath, Evelyn took to the terrace to enjoy the breeze. Lounging in her velveteen dressing gown, the elf teased the knots in her hair with absentminded strokes, watching the city lights flicker on as darkness laid its hand on Hightown. On the horizon, the faint glow of a few sea-bound boats dotted an inky horizon. 

The firm knock on her door was expected given the hour, and though Evelyn was content to see out the rest of the night in her room, she went to greet her guest—positive it was a serving girl with an invitation to dine or Leliana with a report. 

To her surprise, it was neither. Grand Enchanter Vivienne barely gave the elf time to formulate a greeting before squeezing herself through the door. 

“How are you, my dear?” the mage purred over the undignified sounds of the Inquisitor, oblivious to the intrusion. 

“Grand Enchanter?” 

Vivienne fluttered a well-manicured hand by her face as if she were swatting away an unruly fly. 

“Please don’t. There’s none of that between friends.”

Vivienne was a vision of perfection. Her form-fitting ivory robes were tailored with baby-blue accents and silver embroidery. In true Orlesian fashion, her fishtail dress exposed her long, shapely legs and dragged behind her like a wedding train. 

She wiggled further into the room and observed Evelyn’s quarters, making passing comments on the length of the curtains, the trimmings of the tassels, and the faux-pas that was mixing burgundy tapestries with olive-green bedding. 

“I’m surprised to see you in Kirkwall,” Evelyn offered, hoping to steer the conversation away from décor. “I didn’t think this was your kind of soirée.”

Vivienne ran a finger over the gilded drinks table. She rubbed her index and thumb together in small, deliberate circles, and was silent for a time.

“It’s not, my dear,” she agreed, before sauntering back to her company, rolling her hips as she went. As always, the mage left little to the imagination when it came to her décolletage, which—much to Evelyn’s disappointment—was as flawless as ever. The elf could not help but marvel at the low-plunge top and the Enchanter’s unbroken, hickory skin. 

“But Kirkwall has its charm. I was born in Wycome, after all. Perhaps I’m burdened by some small, buried patriotism, but I’ve always harbored a soft spot for the Free Marches—as much as that pains me to admit.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve come,” Evelyn offered. “It feels like years since we were able to talk.” 

After Vivienne’s promotion, visits between the Inquisitor and the mage had been sporadic at best. With Evelyn tending to Inquisitorial matters in Val Royeaux while Vivienne pulled the Circle’s strings from her comfortable seat in Cumberland, there were seldom opportunities to meet. 

Vivienne rewarded her words with a warm smile. 

“I am, too. Now, I’ve disturbed you enough, my dear. I was hoping we might be announced together, but seeing as you’re still in a dressing gown, I think that might not be possible.” She gave a girly giggle and tapped a long finger against her lower lip. Her eyes scanned Evelyn mercilessly. “I’m also going to assume that, as always, you’ve traveled light and lack the proper attire for the occasion.”

When Evelyn stammered into a protest, Vivienne waved a hand to silence her, like a mother warding off childish excuses. “What am I saying? You lack the proper attire for _any_ occasion. I’ll send over my ladies with a few suitable items. When they’re done, come find me. My room is the first one down the hall.”

And with that, Vivienne sashayed to the door, and left, leaving Evelyn to wonder whether, one day, she will ever have the balls to say no to that woman. 

True to her word, within fifteen minutes, a fleet of Orlesian girls came knocking, bearing all manner of ribbons, dresses, frocks, powders, and perfumes. With polite words and firm tugs, they pulled the Inquisitor this way and that, checking sizes, appraising swatches of fabric against the elf’s complexion, and arguing about how best to dress a missing arm. The Inquisitor’s orderly room quickly turned into a bombsite of cloth, brushes, strings, bickering women, and other fashion accouterments. Lavellan flirted with the idea of calling the whole thing off. However, the notion died when she considered how arduous fighting off the battle-hardened ladies of Madame de Fer would be—no doubt her complaints would fall on deaf, unappreciative ears. Instead, she was quiet and patient, offering help when necessary and remaining blissfully unaware the rest of the time. 

Four dresses and an hour later, Evelyn stood outside the Grand Enchanter’s door, shuffling from foot to foot like a nervous Chantry girl. She lingered, torn between knocking or returning to her quarters to slip into her standard uniform. Despite the brisk evening air, the Inquisitor was sweating through her sheer navy gown and under her long, curled hair. Jaw clenched, the elf raised her fist and swung. And faltered. 

“Fenedhis,” she swore. From the throne room, the clamor of plates and drunken laughter echoed through the keep, heightening Evelyn’s mounting unease. She turned and walked back towards her room. 

With a screech, Vivienne’s door flew open. The mage peered around it, her face in a scowl—as much as her tight features would permit. 

“Maker’s Breath, what are you doing?” she whispered through gritted teeth. She slid out of her room—which Evelyn realized was double the size of her own—and closed the door with a subtle click behind her. “I thought you were going to hover outside my room like a bad smell all night.”

Lavellan threw up her hand in anguish.  
  
"Well?" Vivienne pressed, brow arched. 

Evelyn stammered and spluttered through her feelings, trying to put into words how unfamiliar and uncomfortable the situation made her. Despite her long years feasting with heads of state, entertaining nobility, and public speaking, dressing like the belle of the ball—a lopsided, one-armed belle at that—gave her cause for concern. 

As expected, Vivienne responded to her statement with an uninterested scoff. The mage took Evelyn’s shoulders between her fingers and gave a squeeze. Whether it was an attempt at comfort or a warning, Evelyn couldn’t be sure: Vivienne’s thoughts were unreadable; her fixed smile and narrowed eyes gave nothing away. 

“Darling, you cannot hide behind your Winter Palace suit all your life. Times change. Besides, you look absolutely ravishing. Cullen is going to lose his mind! Oh, stop protesting—everyone this side of Thedas knows something is going on between the two of you.” Vivienne linked arms with her and cajoled her towards the party. With gentle touches and kind words, she led Evelyn like a lamb to slaughter.


	11. Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Party people!

The throne room was adequately sized as far as throne rooms go. Though smaller than Skhold’s, the decorators made use of the hall’s narrow structure and transformed it into an entertainment hall to be proud of. 

Below the imperial staircase, two parallel banquet tables took center-stage. Filled with roasts, towering platters of grilled vegetables, baskets of bread, and near-empty bowls of punch, most of the guests hovered by the feast in packs of two or more. Teams of dwarves and humans grazed together peacefully. They swapped stories, clinked glasses, and spoke loudly, fighting to make themselves heard over the hubbub. 

Vivienne led Evelyn to the banister. She pointed out critical members of Kirkwall’s dwarven castes, named a few prominent Circle mages, and disparaged the “gaudy” wear of an entire Nevarran entourage. Despite Evelyn’s earlier anxieties, Vivienne’s barrage of information was a comfort, and by the time they made their first-round through the crowds, Evelyn’s tight smile had relaxed into a grin.

“Well, we are _certainly_ not at Halamshiral, are we, my dear?” Vivienne said, her gaze following a blonde Kirkwaller in a feathered hat emblazoned with stones. She sipped her wine with arched, skeptical brows. 

“Must you be so mean about everyone?”

“Darling, we’re at a _ball_ . If you attend a public event dressed like _that_ , you deserve all the ridicule you get.”

The Inquisitor chuckled into the rim of her glass and took a tentative gulp. The wine was robust, silky, and warmed her core with a gentle heat. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bran approach. In his military uniform, the former Viscount looked—dare she say it—dashing. However, his keen fashion sense did little to mask his fretful expression, the darting eyes that flitted from person to person as if willing something to go wrong.

“Bran, I believe you’re in dire need of a drink.” 

The seneschal gave a half-hearted bow and rubbed his slick palms down his trousers. 

“Grand Enchanter, Inquisitor,” he said numbly, giving the room another furtive glance. “I am glad you’re enjoying yourselves—I mean—that is to say—” He searched their faces for confirmation. 

“Everything’s amazing, Bran, thank you,” Evelyn said, interrupting the beginngings of Vivienne’s scathing review. 

“The Viscount asks that you join him in his private room. Commander Cullen and Lady Leliana are already there.” He gestured at a sequestered section of the throne room, partitioned from the rest of the hall by a long, emerald curtain. 

* * *

“Ruffles, I swear on Andraste’s golden nipples, I will catch you cheating one of these hands.” Varric pawed for the handkerchief inside his breast pocket. 

The cloistered room was small—smaller than most castle pantries. A large, oval table occupied much of the space, leaving enough room for a smattering of stools, and a drinks table. Across it, were a collection of half-empty bottles, and a very empty punch bowl. In the furthest corner of the quarter was Kirkwall’s modest wood throne. Varric’s crown dangled dangerously from one arm. 

“My isn’t this _quaint_ ,” Vivienne breathed. Leliana, Cullen, Josephine, Lace, Bianca, and Varric looked up from their drinks to observe the newcomers. In a sudden rush of squeaking chairs and breathless exclamations, Josephine and Leliana bolted from their seats to rush to the Inquisitor’s side. Vivienne avoided their frantic hands and jutting elbows and waited to one side as the women examined Evelyn’s new look. 

“This fabric, this style!” Leliana said under her breath, running her fingers down the length of the sheer navy dress. Josephine sighed in agreement, turning the Inquisitor so she might inspect the backless design. 

“What beautiful craftsmanship. From the embroidery, I am guessing it’s from Ghislain?”

The mage awarded the bard with a demure nod. 

“Good eye. Ghislanians have no time for petticoats and frocks. The style and silhouette were made for the petit Dalish form.” 

“I am envious of you Orlesians,” Josephine whined before finally embracing Evelyn in a firm hug. “Antivan fashion is all velvet and double coats.” 

“I happen to like velvet and double coats,” Evelyn mumbled into Josephine’s neck, her voice lost behind the dense thicket of loose, black curls cascading down her back. 

Over the curve of her shoulder, Evelyn caught Cullen staring. 

Unlike the skittish seneschal, Commander Cullen looked perfectly at ease in his crimson mess jacket, matching overalls, and white waistcoat. When she rolled her eyes, Cullen shot her his famous Rutherford smirk. Evelyn clung to Josephine for more than moral support. 

“‘Quisitor,” Varric said. “Perfect timing. Our little Antivan Crow over here was about to deal a new hand. You in?” 

Evelyn shook her head and rolled her shoulders as she abandoned her gaggle of girls for the drinks table. She fished for a red among the debris. This would be the first game of Wicked Grace played amongst friends—the notion of stumbling through it with her one arm filled her with worry. 

“Oh, I’ll just spectate. I think the Montilyet estate has benefited enough from my losses over the years.” Behind her, Josephine giggled and slipped back into the dealer’s chair. The folds of her canary yellow gown rasped against the stone floor. 

Varric grumbled in protest, but Cullen intervened on her behalf. 

“The Inquisitor will play with me. Maker knows I need all the help I can get.” He implored her with wide, pleading eyes. 

Evelyn smiled, nodded, and took the vacant seat next to Cullen. Ever the gentleman, he rose to welcome her to the table. 

“There’s a smart man who knows when to ask for help when he needs it,” Bianca said. She patted the chair beside her, luring Varric to her side. 

“You might be a Paragon, Bianca, but you’ve got a long way to go in Wicked Grace.” The Viscount tapped his temple and stumbled over the leg of a chair. 

“At least I can still walk, can’t I?”

From the far end of the table, Lace gave a derisive snort and palmed her newly dealt cards. “Kirkwall’s banks are in for a rough night,” she said. 

Josphine handed out the remaining cards to the players and reshuffled the pool. From the corner of the room, Leliana and Vivienne spoke of art and theater and at length regarding Empress Celene’s latest mistress. While the others played, they offered support from the sidelines to ensure the increasingly _blotto_ Viscount was never without a full glass. 

“I am going all in,” Varric slurred after consulting his cards for the fourth time. Bianca craned her neck to check his hand and gave a hoot of surprise. 

“Did your mother drop you on a stone slab when you were born? None of your cards match!” Bianca jabbed his hand with a firm finger. Varric pulled them to his chest to shield them from her attack. 

“None of them match— _yet_. But this is a winning hand, I can feel it in my—” Varric searched for a word, whisking the air in an attempt to kick-start his vocabulary. 

“Bones? Chest hair?” 

“Why’d you gotta bring in my chest hair like that,” Varric sighed and scratched at the bouquet of ginger curls sprouting from his open shirt like an overgrown hedge. 

The two began bickering, oblivious to Josephine’s not-so-subtle attempt to exchange her unwanted cards from the deck. 

Evelyn glanced down at the cards nestled between Cullen’s fingers. _Three Knights, two Serpents._ All things considered, it was a decent set. 

“Let’s swap the dagger out and raise,” she whispered, nodding to herself as she weighed the possibility of a flush. Cullen’s breath tickled her nose and eyelashes. She was close—much closer than she realized. 

“You look unbelievable.” He smelt like sweet ale, sweat, and floral perfume. Evelyn focused on the cards, willing Cullen to look away, and prayed her hair was long enough to cover the blush that pricked her cheeks and neck. 

“They’re just fancy clothes,” she grumbled, trying—and failing—to scoot away without drawing too much attention to herself. His warm hand on her knee subdued her.

“The dress is stunning, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” He relocated his hand to cup her face, tilting it towards him. 

Cullen whispered more sweet nothings, but Evelyn didn’t hear him, nor did she hear Bianca’s eclectic curses, or Varric’s slurred jives. In a heartbeat, the room seemed to fade away. The drone of the ball was quiet, muted as if channeled underwater, and the voices of her companions were almost indecipherable. Try as she might, the elf could not focus on anything—not the shapeless cards on the table, nor the ruby red wine that swirled and spluttered in her glass. 

She searched Cullen’s face and saw Solas, felt his bony fingers lace themselves in her hair. 

_Focus._

Vivienne’s voice reached through the noise, coiling itself around her shoulders in a warm embrace. It echoed in her mind, reverberating with the vigor of a rung iron bell. 

_Return._

Reality rushed back to Evelyn in an instant, dropping the Inquisitor into the comfortable folds of the present. Bianca was halfway through a vitriolic review of Hard in Hightown. Varric sat wordlessly in his chair, gazing at his cards in poorly veiled fury. The clink of coin sounded across the table where Josephine and Lace were busy scraping their loot into small, brown satchels. 

“Evelyn?” 

Cullen’s fingers were a tangled mess in her hair. His grip was firm. 

“Cullen, you’re hurting me,” she said, reaching up with a hand to stay his. 

He sighed, his broad shoulders slumping against his body. The fearful look in his eyes was gone, replaced by worry and fatigue. 

“Maker’s Breath,” he whispered, “I thought you were having a stroke.”

“I might have,” she admitted. She scanned the room, checking the walls, the tapestries, the chandelier, the throne, the crown. From beyond the partition, the familiar uproar of the ballroom continued uninterrupted. When Cullen’s face erupted with more lines, she shook her head and forced a smile. “I think I’m just a bit light-headed. Could be the wine.” Evelyn rose to her feet, gave her excuses, and left the room.

The Grand Enchanter followed her steps with a curious, unyielding gaze, like a hawk watching a mouse shuffle blindly through the dark. 


	12. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn must choose between loving a man, or the memory of one.

Lavellan clutched her chest. Her heart was racing, banging against her rib cage like an angry debt collector at the door of a beholden peasant. The crisp evening air tickled her lungs and smelt of burnt yule and sea-salt.

"I know that look: it's the look of someone who requires magely advice."

Vivienne watched Evelyn from the patio doors, her tall frame silhouetted against the light that streamed behind her. She looked ethereal, a holy figure outlined by a golden glow.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Over the years, you develop an eye for it. You forget, my dear, that when it comes down to it, mages are essential because their knowledge of the world, both physical and metaphysical, is second to none. We are scholars first and foremost. When people have questions about history, medicine, love, they turn to us—it's not all demons and the Fade. And for an Inquisitor with so much experience under her belt to stand here gazing into nothingness, well, one can only assume your worldly expertise has met a wall, and you're in need of transcendent advice."

Vivienne floated to the banister next to her but was careful not to soil her clothes on the railing. She narrowed her eyes and was, all at once, very serious.

"I am no fool, Inquisitor. I hope you understand the gravity of my statement when I say how surprised I am by your little blip into the Fade. Mages have many gifts—communion with the Fade being one of them—but to traverse its barrier with no magical aid? That is power few across history have wielded."

"Is that what happened?" Evelyn whispered. She glanced down at her missing arm, felt her heartbeat tremble into another uneven gait.

"Maker's Teeth, you haven't the faintest idea, do you?"

"So, that was you then—I heard your voice. How did you stop it? Bring me back?"

Vivienne clicked her tongue and shook her head with such force her drake-stone earrings slapped the corners of her face.

"These are all questions for another time, Inquisitor. For now, I need to understand how and why this is occurring."

When Evelyn did not answer, she tutted and placed a hand comfortingly on her shoulder. The scorn on her face gave way to concern.

"Something is amiss with you, my dear, and one does not need to be magically inclined to see that. You've helped me with my problems—let me return the favor."

Evelyn reviewed the offer in silence. Then, with a sigh, she resigned herself to Vivienne's help.

"I've been dreaming."

Vivienne arched a thin eyebrow but said nothing.

"Sometime after the Crossroads, they started. They were trifles at first, just broken images."

"And now?" Vivienne pressed.

"Now they're..." Evelyn trailed off, trying to find the words that would help Vivienne understand the depth and color of her dreams, the sights, the memories. "I've seen so many things, Vivienne—been so many places. I dream with such clarity that sometimes I forget what's real and what's not." The Inquisitor considered telling the Grand Enchanter of her encounters with Solas but thought better of it.

"Well, this clearly has something to do with the Anchor you once bore. Unfortunately, the only person well-versed in ancient elven magic was our egg-head apostate."

With a strained sigh, Vivienne started to pace—muttering to herself as she waltzed from one side of the patio to the other like a bored war hound.

"If you were a mage, I wouldn't worry—we're trained to deal with Fade interactions from our earliest days at the Circle. But for someone like you, who has stumbled into it as you have, dreaming with no formative training can have very dire consequences. My professional advice is to seek guidance. If I was not required at the conclave, I would offer my services. As soon as I return to Nevarra, I will consider who best to send you in my stead."

"Thank you, Vivienne," Evelyn said. "I suppose it goes without saying that I would like to keep this information between us for as long as we can."

"Of course, my dear, but you're going to have to think up something very clever to keep the Commander from worrying. I thought the man was going to run through the halls of the keep, screaming your name while he searched for you." She feigned a shudder.

Evelyn pouted as she pictured Cullen's worried expression. "I think I'll retire for the night. Would you mind—"

"Don't fret, darling. I'll tell the necessary parties you were feeling poorly after your long voyage."

They parted ways at the bottom of the stairs: the Enchanter returned to the ball while Evelyn made a beeline for her bedroom.

* * *

Cullen hovered outside her door, staring at the wood with such intensity the Inquisitor feared it would shatter under his gaze. The hallway was dim, lit only by a single brazier; nevertheless, Cullen's golden hair was unmistakable, even as long shadows concealed the rest of him from view.

The Commander glanced up as she approached. His small, uniform teeth gleamed like pearls in the gloom.

"Maker's Breath, you're here. I was... worried about you."

"I'm sorry I left so abruptly," she apologized, her lips curled into a frown as she mapped his pained expression. "I needed to clear my head."

"I tried to follow you, but Vivienne made this face and told me to stop embarrassing myself—to let you go." He sighed and rubbed his neck; face cocked to one side to mask his disappointment. "I still don't know if that was the right thing to do."

"It was, but thank you for worrying about me all the same. Now, stop hiding from me. I want to see the face that launched a thousand Orlesian marriage offers."

With an embarrassed laugh, he shuffled round, wobbling like a newborn foal.

Evelyn chuckled. "My, my, is the Commander a little bit tipsy?" she cooed.

"No." Cullen straightened his shoulders but quickly lost his balance. He conceded with a sigh. "Alright. Perhaps a little."

As their muted laughter filled the corridor, Evelyn guided his hand to her waist. Even in the dark, Cullen's shock was tangible.

"I don't want you falling over and hurting yourself," she explained.

In reality, Evelyn craved companionship. After today's new development, the elf wanted nothing more than to discard the inquisitorial façade, to do away with composure, to forsake the parts of her that inspired hope and give in to quiet despair. As she searched Cullen's face, she wondered whether that would ever be possible—whether she could ever be less than her Inquisitor mantel and still rouse the same love and devotion in her Commander. The thought made her stomach churn.

Cullen snaked another hand around her waist and pulled her close. Though he tried to be gentle, his movements were sharp, ungraceful, and induced a grunt of surprise from the Inquisitor as she floundered into his chest. The contrite Commander whispered a slew of rueful apologies, yet his hold on her did not lessen. When his hands began to roam and explored the curve of her hips with light, curious touches, Evelyn stifled an appreciative sigh.

"I have to agree with Lady Leliana," he said. "The fabric is quite lovely."

"I shall ask Vivienne to put you in touch with her seamstress."

His laugh was hoarse, strained. It quietened into a purr as he warmed the small of Evelyn's back with heavy strokes. From the nape of her neck down to the tips of her toes, her body erupted in heat. She tried to ignore the growing knot at the base of her gut that pulsed with every touch.

"Would you like to come inside, Commander?" She planted a kiss on his lips, rising on her toes to do so. "Or shall I leave you to resume your previous door watch?"

"I want nothing more," he said quietly. He pulled Evelyn close, until every inch of her folded into his chest, and kissed her with such passion it took her breath away. As she reached for the handle of her door, he stayed her hand.

Evelyn searched his face. When she opened her mouth to question him, Cullen shook his head.

"I want our first time to be special. Coherent." He swayed from left to right and did his best to suppress his slur. "When you're over—"

"What?" she pressed when he faltered, trying to smother the disappointment and fear that lined her voice. "When I'm over what?" Evelyn's thoughts shot back to the boat, to the name whispered under the lull of sleep. 

"Nothing. Forgive me, Inquisitor." Cullen was many things—a good liar was not one of them. 

She shuddered and felt foolish for her forwardness. "I'm sorry, you're right. It was silly of me to ask."

"Evelyn—"

Evelyn did not look back when he called, nor did she pay any mind to the set of angry knocks that followed. The Inquisitor undressed, washed her face, and closed her terrace doors. When her noxious thoughts had quietened, she slipped beneath her olive blanket and closed her eyes. Tonight, she did not dream. 


	13. The Dread Wolf's Forces

At noon the following day, Evelyn received a summon from Varric asking to rendezvous by the gates. And to bring comfortable shoes.

After last night's festivities, the keep was unsurprisingly desolate. On her journey to the grounds, Evelyn shared a brief hello with the ever-diligent Bran and a bleary-eyed Leliana, who spent much of the conversation trying to suppress a burp.

In the entrance hall, the Inquisitor was stopped by a young serving girl in a pristine linen dress. Her golden tresses and sky-blue eyes reminded Evelyn of a porcelain doll.

"For you, Inquisitor." Her timid, Orlesian drawl was very thick. "Madame de Fer is sorry she could not be here in person. She asks that you read this note with her sincerest apologies." 

The messenger handed Evelyn a bone-white envelope, curtseyed, and left. 

Vivienne's penmanship was elegant, the filigree impeccable.

Dearest Evelyn,

I am en-route to Nevarra—the conclave cannot wait. As sad as I am to leave without saying goodbye, rest assured we will see each other soon. I have begun making inquiries into your matter and will reach out with suggestions when I can. In the meantime, be safe, and consider procuring a sleeping poultice. Given the Commander's former lyrium withdrawal, he should know how to get some.

Until we meet again.

Vivienne

p.s - keep the dress!

Varric was where the messenger said he would be. Propped against the arched iron gates of the Viscount's Keep, the dwarf waved when he spotted her. He was dressed in worn leather trousers, a harness, an intricately embellished tunic, and a pecan duster. From his loose bun down to his shoddy Antivan boots, Varric looked the part of the traveling storyteller.

"I'll be honest, after last night I didn't expect to see you until tomorrow," Evelyn admitted as they shook hands. Varric eyes were a little dark, but if the dwarf was feeling worse for wear, he didn't show it.

"I like to think of it as a racial perk. We don't run as well as the other two legs, but we've got maximum hangover defense and can grow a mean beard."

"Is Bianca around?"

Varric tsked and shrugged his shoulders. The gate trembled as it was pried open.

"Don't know, don't care," he muttered. There was no venom in his voice. "Probably on a boat back to Val Royeaux to check the shop and see what' s-his-face."

"Bogdan? You're going to have to learn his name eventually, Varric. They've been married a while."

He sighed and kicked at the pebbles that lined the road outside Hightown, narrowly missing the ankles of a few passing merchants. "Maybe you're right. Maybe it's time I settle down, too."

"Longing for the pitter-patter of little feet?" she giggled. Evelyn pictured Cullen's face before she could catch herself and frowned. Varric was too busy consulting his navel to notice.

"Andraste's tit, no, but now that Kirkwall's in better shape, it might be time to consider other things besides coin flow." The dwarf elbowed Evelyn with a dry laugh. "Anyway, I didn't ship you out here to talk about me, Comtesse. What about you? We were all worried last night." Varric scanned her face and gestured for them to swap to the other side of the road to avoid a gaggle of well-dressed socialites.

Evelyn met his gaze fleetingly and struggled with a smile. It was all she could manage.

"It'll get better in time. The Inquisition is doing well—as well as can be expected. Leliana is hard at work, trying to maintain a secure spy network. Cassandra is rebuilding the Seekers, but still makes time between that and being the Divine to help when needed."

"Cassandra," Varric chuckled. "Divine Seeker Pentaghast. Who would've thought?"

As they passed tall, glitzy houses, meandered through clean cobbled streets and rubbed shoulders with wealthy entrepreneurs for whom rapacity came as easily as breathing, Evelyn noticed a trend. They were descending—slowly but surely—away from Hightown's glistening sanctum back towards the docks, towards Lowtown. When Evelyn asked about their destination, Varric frowned and said nothing.

"It'll be easier to talk there."

Traversing Kirkwall's sprawling city took time. Soon enough, however, pristine townhouses made way for rundown shacks, ornate wells, and peaceful city gardens replaced by raggedy statues, collapsed walls, and a labyrinth of dark, dingy corridors. Despite the visual shift, there was life here—a tumultuous, buxom vitality that spoke loudly and often, with a dynamism Hightown could never hope to emulate. On every corner, dwarven merchants bellowed offers from wooden pop-up shops while carts, mules, and swarms of Kirkwallers marched down the street as they journeyed to their next location. Evelyn clung to t Varric's shirt, trying not to get swept away in the chaos of it all.

Eventually, the crowds began to dissipate as Evelyn and Varric trekked deeper into Lowtown's underbelly, the dark and dingy quarters women avoided, and children were forbidden from going to. Using a network of alleyways, Varric directed Evelyn to a clearing walled off by a colossal iron gate that put the one at Viscount's Keep to shame. The thick treetops of the old vhenadahl told the Inquisitor all she needed to know.

"Kirkwall's Alienage?"

"Uh-huh. From what I hear, one of the largest in Thedas." He scuffed the toe of his boot against the floor and folded his arms.

"Is this where you lock me up and throw away the key?"

Varric did not laugh.

Evelyn studied the Alienage's wide courtyard. A handful of elves ebbed in and out of sight. Some talked among themselves. Others hung painted decorations around the low-hanging branches of the vhenadahl. A statue of Andraste lay broken at the feet of a stone bench covered in dead leaves and old, rotten bouquets. Although it was packed with tiny rundown apartments, the space was quiet. Empty.

"Elves have been… disappearing. It wasn't noticeable at first, but now…" He pointed at the empty Alienage. "It's pretty obvious a lot of them have upped and left."

"Any foul play?"

Varric scowled. "Nope. Nothing. First thing I looked into. I was wondering if the same had been happening in Orlais. Merrill is missing, too," he added. 

Evelyn considered the elves who vanished from Skyhold after the Exalted Council. She had heard rumors, but nothing ironclad had been reported by any nation. 

"These kinds of things aren't easy to track. They're elves, Varric—most cities don't keep tabs on their whereabouts."

"I thought as much," he said as he ran a hand over his head. He looked despondent.

"You're worried?"

"Course I'm fuckin' worried," Varric retorted, his eyes wide with alarm. "And you should be, too."

"You said it yourself—there's no evidence of foul play."

"Yea', I ain't worried about them, Inquisitor. I'm concerned about us. Where'd you think they're all going?"

"I'm sorry, Varric, my elvish intuition only goes so far. I've not been summoned anywhere. Perhaps my invitation got lost in the mail."

The dwarf chuckled, but his heart wasn't in it. Evelyn watched him warily.

"It's not my elvenness… is it?" she murmured, disheartened by the way he avoided her gaze. "You think I know about this because of _him_?"

Varric exhaled through his nose and kneaded his cheeks. "I don't know," he hissed. "I'm sure you can understand why I ask. Your lover boy turns out to be some ancient messiah that wants to reinstate the glory days of elves, and suddenly the Alienage starts emptying like an old man's bowels after an embrium curry."

The dwarf drew a shaky breath and turned away from her, walking back the way they came. He stopped and rested his hands on his hips, head bowed in contemplation.

"I don't think you did it. Hell, I never really thought you knew about it either. I just wanted some confirmation. Some fuckin' lead." He looked over his shoulder with sad, pleading eyes. "Chuckles been gone almost three years now. And we ain't got a pot to piss in when it comes to knowing his next move."

Evelyn joined his side.

"I get it, Varric. It's been hard for all of us." She glanced back at the Alienage, at the smattering of elves in their city prison. "If it helps, I can ask Leliana to spare a few of our agents—conduct an investigation. With some luck, we'll find out where they've been going. We might find Merrill."

Varric nodded. "That would mean a lot to me, Inquisitor. Now, let's get back to the nice part of the city, shall we? Preferably before Bran sends a search party after us."


	14. Her Teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yay, onto Solas things after this slow-burn! Now let's have some fun dreaming. Shifted into first tense to break the two chapters a little more easily.

As promised, upon returning to Val Royeaux, the Inquisitor consulted her Spymaster on how best to investigate the missing Kirkwall elves. Unsurprisingly, Leliana had her reservations.

"I don't see any outcome where we profit from this." The Orlesian thumbed her lip and scanned the documents strewn across the table.

Evelyn coaxed the coals with the stoker, beating new life into the dying embers of the War Room's fireplace. Satisfied with the result, she eased onto her backside and watched the flames from the crook of her knees. The scratching of pen on paper rang across the table.

"We know the Cult of Fen'Harel is gaining traction. Solas has sympathizers across Thedas, and while I don't doubt these disappearing elves are part of this movement, Alienages are difficult to infiltrate. They do not know us, and will not trust us. Any leads we find are probably red herrings to throw us off their scent."

"Varric wants an investigation. I understand your reservations, but if there's any hope for us finding Solas, his _people_ are our best bet." She blinked at the fire, chasing the slivers of flame that darted and danced along the charred walls. She stifled a yawn. "Have you sent word to Alistair regarding the issue?"

More scratching. Leliana dabbed the nib of her pen into the ink pot.

"Letter went out yesterday. The King owes us a great deal. Thanks to Josie's solid introduction of the Ferelden court to Empress Celene, their commerce has never been better. I'm sure we'll receive a raven in the coming week."

"That's good. I'm curious to know how Denerim's elven population is faring."

More silence. More scratching.

"And Cullen?"

"What about him?"

"Any reports? Sightings? Movements?"

"Are you sure you do not wish to ask him yourself?" Leliana's tone smacked of boredom. She refiled her nib and rattled it noisily against the glass pot.

Leliana was not wrong—Evelyn longed to quiz her Commander on the state of affairs, but couldn't bring herself to do so. In the days since they returned from Kirkwall, Evelyn had done everything in her power to avoid an audience with him, which included shirking daily forums with her advisers. Presently, this was the reason for her late night meeting with the Spymaster—a means to keep abreast with her Inquisitorial work, much to Leliana's mounting annoyance.

"I would prefer not to."

Leliana sighed. The scratching stopped.

"Inquisitor, if I might—we have a saying in Orlais: when mother and father fight, the children go hungry."

"Meaning?"

"If you and Cullen do not make a beast with two backs soon the Inquisition will suffer for it."

Evelyn gargled in surprise. Leliana ignored her response.

"We cannot run an organization when two of our most public figureheads cannot look at each other without blushing." She waved her arms in dismay, shocked to be having this conversation with an adult. "Whatever happened in Kirkwall needs to be resolved. Immediately."

When Evelyn shuffled to her feet, Leliana groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers.

"Please, Inquisitor. Mend the hurt between you and Cullen. Don't let it impact your work."

"You're right, as always," the elf conceded with a nod. Her shoulders heaved with the weight of her sigh. "It's late, and I've taken much of your time."

As she reached the door, Leliana called her name.

"There is another saying I am fond of. From Ferelden."

"Oh?"

The Spymaster's eyes were dark and hooded. The sight of them sent a shiver down Evelyn's spine.

"Shit, or get off the pot. If you cannot be with Cullen, make room for those that can." 

* * *

  
Evelyn sits on a rocky precipice above a frozen lake.

A light dusting of snow falls over Haven. There's laughter in the air, joy she can taste on the tip of her tongue that melts into memories of honeysuckle and lime. She can see people dancing; hear the rustle of their clothes as they throw up their arms and swing in circles. The strings of a lute echo across the lake, untuned and discordant.

She watches Cullen stomp across the grounds, papers in hand. With a curt nod, he shrugs off the advances of a buxom brunette, even as she tugs at his pauldron, pouting all the while. His mouth forms words she cannot hear, but the crimson blush that brightens his cheeks tells Evelyn all she needs to know. Cassandra laughs at the scene behind a tent and shrugs her armour into place.

"How long will you cling to Haven?" Solas says through a hollow chuckle. He adjusts the staff on his back and sits beside her. His warmth cuts through the cold like a hot blade; snow melts between the leather where their arms meet.

Recognition flares in her eyes.

"Ah, yes, this already happened." Evelyn fingers the boulder beneath her, shoveling dirt, grit, and ice under her nails.

"Your memories of this moment are very clear. It is easy to forget."

Solas watches the camp and Evelyn in turn. He folds his arms across his chest to keep out the cold and frowns when Evelyn does not pay him further acknowledgement. It makes him nervous. "The spirits are enjoying themselves. I know many that love to dance."

"I didn't think you were that kind of person."

"Pardon?"

"One that fills silence with chatter."

Solas allows himself to smile, and observes her out of the corner of his eye. He delights in her small hands, watching as they draw lazy patterns in the stone. Hands he once held, kissed, kneaded, led. Hands that trusted him, that reached out in dark and damp despair and pulled with desperate, sweet desire. He wants nothing more than to hold them again, to tease her calloused palms and trace their faded scars.

From across the frozen waterway, Cullen bellows a command. The sun is setting quickly and Evelyn squints her eyes to see him. Solas puzzles over her fascination but restrains the urge to comment.

"Why are you here?" It’s a loaded question with several answers. Solas isn’t sure how to respond. In the end, he chooses the most impactful.  
  
“Because you are in grave danger.”

“Thedas is in grave danger, if what you told me at the Crossroads is true.”  
  
He bristles. Muscled arms tense against hers.  
  
“This is different, and a much more immediate problem.” 

She studies him, mapping the sharp curve of his cheek bones, the gaunt hollows of his face. In the evening light, his slate eyes seem colourless. 

"If it’s so pressing, why didn't you come sooner?" He has not visited since she left for Kirkwall. His scowl tells her she may not like the answer.  
  
“I had other matters to attend to.” He does not give her time to ruminate on the possibilities of what these other matters might entail. “And I wanted to give you time to consider my offer."

“What offer is that?”  
  
“To learn. To dream. To guard yourself against the Fade.”

In the distance, the flames of a newly lit bonfire mushroom into an inky sky.

 _It's almost time._  
  
“Fine.”  
  
Solas clicks his tongue. “That’s not quite an answer,” he says. He hooks his fingers under her chin and turns her face towards him. His gaze is cold. “Do you accept my aid, Inquisitor?" He wants to hear her say it. He needs her to.

"Yes."

Evelyn struggles to her feet and dusts the snow from her trousers. Solas joins her. Together, they look towards the horizon and watch the jagged outline of the mountains. A low tremor tickles their toes. It grows into a rumble. Tiny lights appear—one, then hundreds.

In Haven, a guard sounds the alarm. The screech of the red lyrium dragon shakes the treetops.


	15. Nature of the Beast

The sunlight was bright here—where ever  _ here _ was.

Evelyn shielded her eyes and blinked up at the sky through the gaps in her fingers. Shards of light punctured holes through a dense canopy of impossibly high trees, with trunks so wide and gnarled they put dwarven thaigs to shame.

The elf propped herself up with her arm. The soil beneath her was dark like powdered onyx and cool to the touch. From it swelled thousands of tiny flowers, plants, and shrubs, in fantastical colours they no longer had names for.

Solas crept towards her.

"Are you alright, Inquisitor?" He crouched down and offered his hand.

"Where are we?" Evelyn squinted at her surroundings. There was nothing but trees, rocks, and the persistent drone of a thousand unseen creatures. She snubbed Solas' help and staggered to her feet, dusting dirt and twigs from her apparel with short, meaningful swipes. When she finished, Solas began to chuckle.

"What?"

He extended his arms and implored her with open palms. "May I?"

She nodded. Solas approached with timid steps, as Dalish herders do with restive halla. He was close enough to embrace, close enough that the tiny threads of his beige tunic were individually discernible. Suddenly, his fingers were in her hair, plucking and pulling. Leaves and bits of debris snagged on her shoulders as they fell.

When the deed was done, Solas pulled away to observe his work.

"Better. Now, let us make haste. We only have a few moments to ourselves, and I would like to get through this lesson quickly."

He took the lead, set the course, and spurred into action. Evelyn could do nothing but follow, flying into an uneven gait beside him as they navigated the pitted terrain. Their presence startled a flock of birds, sending them screaming from the treetops.

"Where are we?" She asked again.

"An important question, no doubt. In dreaming, however, it is as pertinent to ask  _ when _ as well as where."

"Alright, Solas. When?"

"I have no idea," he said. Laughter lined his voice. "Sometime between my time and yours."

"That gives us thousands of years to work with."

"I know."

"Then this isn't a memory?"

"It is—it is simply not mine."

When Evelyn grumbled in confusion he shot her a sympathetic smirk.

"Cast your mind back to our earliest conversations, Lethallan. I told you of my travels, my journeys into the Fade. The battles, the unsung stories, plucked from ancient ruins and remembered in the remote, forgotten corners of Thedas. This is one of my findings, someone else's past which I have adopted for my own."

"Does that mean you are dreaming there now?"

Solas regarded her with a smile that creased the corners of his mouth in fine lines.

"Is this a sly attempt to ascertain my whereabouts? I suppose there isn't any harm telling you where I am not—and I am not in Brecilian Forest."

Evelyn nodded and hid her shaking hands behind her back. The Lavellan clan had always held Brecilian in high regard. It was a refuge—the last bastion of their peoples' history. The Dalish there performed rituals in dilapidated ruins and prayed to the old Gods before their stony busts and bronze murals. It made them better than others of their kind—a stance Evelyn resented—but the notion did little to dampen her excitement.

She regarded her surroundings with newfound reverence. Solas was patient. When Evelyn wandered, he waited; when she stopped to drink from a brook, he watched; and when she stumbled over her feet, he laughed, and pulled the twigs from her hair. As they walked, he fed her tidbits of information: about the forest, its history, and the elvhen that thrived here since before the time of Arlathan. He also instructed her on the Fade, revisiting topics they glossed over at Haven.

"—if you want to experience the knowledge spirits might have to offer," Solas' sermonized, "sleeping near old places of power are a reliable means of focusing your dreams. Otherwise, the Fade will draw on your memories instead."

"Mmm."

Solas arched a brow. " _ Mmm _ ? That's it? The secrets of the Fade deserve more than a vibration made in the back of your mouth." The elf's words were firm, but not unkind.

Evelyn rubbed the concern from her face and gave a resolute nod.

"You're right, I'm sorry—this is just a lot to take in."

Solas resumed his steps at an easy pace.

"I thought, given your roots, this would be an interesting chapter to start with," he explained.

"I didn't think you cared for places of Dalish worship."

Beneath them, the underbrush gave way to a dirt path that wound its way through the forest towards a deep crater. From a distance, Evelyn picked out the telltale sounds of a waterfall and the distant buzz of civilization. Her heart quickened in her chest.

"I do not. Nevertheless, understanding the full narrative of history has merit, even if some segments are less inspired than others."

As they neared the crinkled stone edges of the valley, the ground began to slope. Solas leaned back into his heels to counteract the pull. Evelyn went with it, and trudged forward with the long, heavy gait of a giant—much to Solas' amusement.  _ She was still a child, after all. _

When she neared the rim, he called her back. 

The basin was deep and marked by yawning grooves left by riverbeds that had long dried up. A network of stairs, carved into the walls of the valley, led down to a settlement of tall apartments, a bazaar, and a small lake fed by a waterfall; its stream hidden deep within the earth. To the north was a temple. It's copper spires towered over the rest of the constructs, casting long shadows over the buttress that fanned around the entrance like the fins of a great leviathan. Around the entablature, drawings and runes whittled into the stone burned lapis blue.

And there were people here. Hundreds of them. They darted in and out of small homes, disappeared behind the temple doors, and hid beneath the vibrant awnings that defined the hamlet's marketplace. Many came to rest under birch and marble arbours dotted around the lake—and in the far distance, lines of travelers made their way back into the forest, their halla's sides padded with stuffed sacks.

"If this place had a name, it has been forgotten. Perhaps it never needed one to begin with." Solas took her wrist and guided her down the steps.

"How old is this place?" the Inquisitor asked when she found her voice.

"Old—older than it appears. This was once a place of pilgrimage for the elvhen of my time. Most of these structures are new, but the ruins beneath the temple are as old as the stone themselves."

As they neared the fringes of the settlement, the stairs flattened into well-trodden roads. Although the sun hung high at its zenith, the valley laboured in perpetual shadow. The unbroken sentry of trees that hemmed the walls maintained a silhouette around its periphery, shading it from the outside world. With a shiver, Evelyn noted it was colder here than on the plateau.

A thin male elf with a faded vallaslin looked up from his wares as they approached. Evelyn recognised the complex markings of Falon'Din by the sprawl of thorny lines that covered every inch of his face.

"Andaran atish'an." He welcomed them with a toothy grin.  _ Enter this place in peace. _

The crowds thickened on the straight path to the distant temple. There were homes here. They reminded Evelyn of ones at the Alienage—tall and tightly packed along the walkway—but were made of wood and stone, and decorated with fine decor and well-made furniture. Though the occupants were primarily of elvhen descent, Evelyn could not help but notice the short ears and unmarked faces of a few wanderers.

"Solas… these are…"

"Humans. Their earliest settlers."

His hand slipped from her wrist. The warmth of his touch lingered like a bracelet of heat around her skin.

"But, the war? Tevinter?"

"A much later development. Our peaceful coexistence is often overlooked. No doubt your Dalish Keeper preferred to share stories from the Dales, and how Tevinter dragons sunk Arlathan beneath the earth." Solas did not mask his disdain. His scowl startled the spirit of a young girl who cowered behind her mother's dress as they passed.

Evelyn fought the urge to argue. He was right, of course—her Keeper's tales of  _ shems _ were scarce. And when they were told, the stories were always bloody. However, the truth of his words did little to lessen their bite. After all this time, he still harboured so much dislike for them. 

_ Her advisers watch her, silent as statues. Josephine hides red eyes behind her hand. Evelyn reads the letters again. The ink runs in places where her tears have fallen. _

_ I regret to inform you that a contingent of soldiers gathered from other cities in the Free Marches attacked Wycome... _

Solas stood to one side to make way for an old cart pulled by two rams. The wheels crackled and clanked as they rolled over hidden pebbles in the road. A few excited children pointed and laughed with high-pitched squeals of approval. His eyes softened as he studied their features—their young, unmarked faces.

"At least the Dalish do not scar their young. It's good to see some positive traditions prevail."

When Evelyn did not respond, he looked round and searched the sea of faces with frantic eyes.

She had vanished.


	16. All New, Faded for Her

The lake was pretty, Evelyn decided. _Peaceful._

She stood and watched lily pads snag against the firm stalks of spindleweed. A skein of Cootes bobbed by the waterfall, seeming to enjoy the constant ripples it supplied. It was quieter here; the din of conversation barely carried over the lips of those that sauntered by. 

Evelyn enjoyed watching them—her people—going about their day in a past she could never have envisioned. They were happy, she thought. Even if the glory days of Arlathan had ended, their people prospered.

_If only._

With a secretive smile, she wondered what Keeper Deshanna would say if she could see this—what anyone in her clan would say if they could experience this place. She pictured her father and mother, hand-in-hand. They would enjoy the sights and smells and traverse the promenade to swap stories with humans and elvhen alike. Cillian would—

 _No.._.

Solas found her—as she knew he would. She could sense him, even as he lurked behind a pavilion.

"Do all ancient elves stalk their women, or is this a ' _you'_ thing?"

Solas shuffled to her side. He scanned her face, lips packed into a straight line.

"I have offended you," he said. "I do not mean to speak ill of your people, but—" He sighed and studied the lake that commanded her focus. "It's difficult for me."

"I understand," she replied.

Solas raised his brows in surprise.

"You do?"

She nodded her head. The elf was not assured.

"I've read enough of Varric's smutty novels to know that agreeable women in times of conflict are, usually, seething beneath the surface."

Evelyn chuckled with a smile that reached her eyes. Solas felt the tightness between his shoulders ebb at the sound.

"I mean it," she said, nodding to herself as if she was weighing the truth of her answer. "Seeing this, it makes sense now." She walked towards the lake and tested the water with a fingertip. "And this isn't even from your time. The buildings, the culture—it's incredible."

"It does not excuse my words. They were untoward and inconsiderate," he admitted.

"I just wish I could show this to my family. I know you think the Dalish are stubborn, but if they see what they have lost, they could learn."

Solas smiled and touched her arm. He tilted his head towards her, willing Evelyn to look at him.

"You can tell them if you like. I'm sure your clan would—"

Her features tightened. The look was fleeting, imperceptible, but he knew her face, her tells. The sight of her discomfort muzzled his words. She was hurt. Hurt with pain that colored her eyes with despair, thick, and fresh, and unyielding. He recognized the look, remembered it—he'd seen it once before.

_"Solas… don't leave me, not now. I love you."_

"When?" he asked slowly.

"Before. Before the fight with Corypheus." 

Solas' surprise was riddled across his face, from his slack jaw to his narrow nostrils, which flared with each long breath.

"You never told me." He searched his memories and drew a blank. He saw her every morning—every night. In that time, she never revealed this private pain. The realization that she hid this wounded him. The irony of it all did not go unnoticed by him, either.

"We all have our secrets. It may not be as grand as hiding one's identity as an ancient God, but there you have it.

"I—I am only sorry you could not trust me with your pain, Lethallan."

Evelyn slid two fingers under his chin and guided his face towards her. She leaned forward, close enough that he might count the smattering of freckles on her nose, the pores on her cheeks that lightly glistened with sweat. 

"I trusted you with a lot more, Solas. At least I shouldered their death alone." _No, not alone. I had Leliana and Josephine. I had Cullen._

When Solas, forlorn, and pouting, created distance between them, she scoffed. Her hands went to her hips.

"It doesn't matter anyway, does it? Whether they're alive or not, what good would come out of these stories?" Evelyn fought to keep an even tone, but the ridiculousness of the situation weighed on her. She felt her temper surge. 

When he did not answer, she pushed his shoulder. Once. Twice. By the third time, a pair of dark-haired elvhen were staring.

"What is the point, Solas?" 

When she motioned to shove him again, Solas grabbed her wrists and clasped them against his chest. He was not gentle.

"I did this because I thought it was what you deserved. I burdened you with the anchor, yes, but when I took it away, I thought our work concluded, my debt repaid."

The Inquisitor writhed in pain. The spark of anger died as quickly as it came. Solas released her and gaped in apology. His words were quiet, tired, spoken only for her.

"But you found me in the most unexpected circumstances—the most extraordinary. As much as I tried to fight it, I came to accept my responsibility in all this, my responsibility to you as a Dreamer, to keep you from stumbling in the dark, wielding power you do not comprehend. And I saw an opportunity to give you closure. To show you my world and all I have cost our people in a hope you might understand why I—"

_Left you._

" _Must_ do this." Solas rubbed the side of his face and felt his years—all several thousand of them.

Her laugh was dry, argumentative, like that of a petulant teenager. He felt anger flare once more in his chest. 

"Wonderful. So, this is all just for _my_ benefit. _My_ understanding? Please, Solas. This is just some quick way to assuage guilt before you tear down the veil." She rubbed the cold from her forearms.

"I am doing this to protect you. To arm you with the tools you need to traverse the Fade unharmed!"

"No, Solas. This is about you. Your guilt. Your regret." 

Fists clenched, eyes narrowed, they watched each other wordlessly, allowing their pain and hurt to fester in the spaces between them. 

"I don't want your help," she said finally. "I don't need it."

"Clearly you do," he said, his tone cracking under the weight of his disappointment. "Was that not made _abundantly_ clear when you invited a demon into your bed?" 

Embarrassment flooded her features. The litany of retorts she had at the ready died on the tip of her tongue. She inhaled sharply, air snapping against her lungs in an audible gasp. Solas had won the argument and he hated himself for it. 

He rubbed the back of his head and tried again. "I _need_ you to be safe."

"Why?” she asked, struggling to suppress the tremor in her voice. “Why do you need me to be safe?”

Solas' lips pulled into a thin line. He knew what she was asking. He knew what she wanted to hear.

"Please, vhenan. I don't want to give any more power to these feelings than they already have. They are real enough without the weight and shape of words."

"They're not real for me."

"How can you say that?" The sharpness of his voice startled them both.

His head pulsed. Solas reached up to soothe his temple and squinted against the swirl of emotion. The pain was too familiar. He felt his memories wobble and shift, try as he might to restrain them. They blurred into anachronistic heaps; his hurt twining and merging into a coil he could not bridle.

_"The veil is thin here. Can you feel it on your skin, tingling?"_

His face fell into a grimace. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Evelyn searched the courtyard for the voice. They rested on his face and contorted with concern.

"Solas…"

"Please, I cannot do this. Not now." He willed himself to focus, but the Fade glanced upon his open heart and twisted to his desire. 

The lake changed, expanded. The shift was almost seamless. Shadowed, hazy forms of two towering statues of Ghilan'nain manifested out of nothingness. It was dark, where moments ago there had been sunlight streaming through the spray of the waterfall. The echoes of elvhen voices faded into an eerie calm.

_"I didn't tell you this to hurt you."_

"Fenedhis— _enough_." Solas gawped uneasily at the setting, the half-formed realization of his memories.

Evelyn stared mutely at the scenery, her expression changing from confusion to recognition. She reached for his hand, never taking her eyes off the tall, distorted statues in the distance.

He took it and felt her tiny fingers fold into his. He kissed the bony ridges of her knuckles.  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“Solas—no.”

"Wake up."


	17. In Every Loaf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Squee!

In the days that followed, Levallan continued to dream. If the Dread Wolf joined her, however, he kept his presence well guarded.

She dreamt of things known and forgotten, walked the familiar paths of the Emerald Graves, the Exalted Plains, and the Hissing Wastes. When her thoughts returned to Haven, Skyhold, and the Free Marches, Evelyn decided it was time to make a journey to broaden her imagination.

She set out unaccompanied, leaving Leliana a note with her intended coordinates, and promised to be back within a fortnight. For Cullen, the Inquisitor left a string of unfinished letters stashed inside a copy of Ballad of Ayesleigh, which would be reviewed upon returning.

While she was eager to travel further north, Evelyn kept within the boundaries of Orlais. She set out first to Val Foret, a rustic rural area peppered with vineyards, windmills, and rolling hills of farmland, and made camp by the confluence fed by the Nahashin Marshes. She was woken some hours later by a spirit that called herself Cerise who, in shrill tones, demanded news of her sister, and spoke at length of a gaudy necklace she thought she had misplaced.

From Velun, she crossed the muddled waters of Lake Celestine and settled in a town on the fringes of Montsimmard. In a tavern, she listened to the stories of an old soldier, who spun pretty tales of bloody battles that filled her dreams with the clamour of war. Although Evelyn had intended to stay longer, the gleaming streets of Montsimmard concealed a troubled past. On her second night, Evelyn awoke in a sheet of sweat, panting, scared, and troubled; the wails of a thousand voices still ringing in her ears. No matter when she dreamed, Montsimmard's unplumbed vein of cruelty reared its head and filled her mouth with the taste of blood and ash. 

It was on the road to Verchiel, the seat of Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, that Evelyn was intercepted by a gruff, brown-eyed messenger in a dented cuirasse criss-crossed with marks. After a brusque introduction, he handed over a sealed letter from Leliana. In neat, cursive handwriting, the Spymaster requested her presence in Val Royeaux at the earliest, for reasons she would not divulge in pen.

* * *

Evelyn stirred in an unfamiliar bed—certainly not the one she fell asleep in.

The room was dark. It was an amorphous, all consuming darkness that chased the stars from the sky and buried all definition under a heavy, impenetrable blanket. Evelyn's eyes strained in their sockets as she felt her way around the bed, her fingers rasping against the thin sheets beneath her. They were old. Lived-in. They smelt of _him_.

"Solas?" she whispered, her words swallowed by the yawning chasm that engulfed her. Evelyn waited. She listened.

From the corner of the room came a creak. The sound of shifted weight filled the air with a grating falsetto. "I'm here, vhenan." Solas' voice was gentle.

"Where are we?" She asked. "When?"

"I cannot say."

The room tasted of him, the air heavy with his aroma. It reminded Evelyn of his tower in Skyhold. As she inhaled, the acrid smell of fresh paint, oil, and lacquer filled her lungs.

With measured movements, she eased onto her knees. The springs of the bed groaned in protest.

As silence reigned between them, she considered their last meeting, mulling over the details in her mind until regret twisted her insides in a painful knot. She pictured the hurt in his eyes, the way his memories warped and distorted. She remembered the kiss. "I didn't think you'd come back," she admitted, resting her palms on the flat of her thighs. Evelyn tried to contain the quiver in her voice.

"I wasn't going to," he said. "However, I thought it best to end this in person, rather than leave you in doubt."

 _End this._ Evelyn's heartbeat stammered at the finality of it; the steely resolution embroiled in his tone.

"I cannot be your teacher." He sighed and was silent for a time. "I had hoped my sense of duty would trample any obstacles we encountered. It was foolish of me to believe that. What's more, in my arrogance, I put us both at risk." He walked towards her, his steps marked by dull thuds. Levallan reached into the dark and felt air slip between her fingers. _Still not close enough to touch._ "I'm certain Lady Vivienne or Master Pavus would oblige. They cannot show you all I wished to share, but at the very least they can arm you against demons."

Evelyn pictured Brecilian Forest, its polished walkways and shining temple. She wanted more, to see more of his world—one lesson was simply not enough. But Evelyn said nothing. She begged Solas once before. The Inquisitor would not submit herself to that heartache again. "You could have chosen a better spot to call it off. At least Crestwood had a lake."

"I'm sorry. This was the safest reality I could muster. The easiest to manage."

"But I can't see you."

"Yes. That is for my benefit more than yours."

Evelyn bit her lip. "I don't want this to stop—not now. I still have so many questions. Ar judala vena ma sal." _I will find you again._

She could hear his sad smile.

"I am sure you'll try, vhenan."

The floor groaned. Evelyn felt Solas grow distant. The sensation filled her with dread, bitter, heavy, and foreboding. She couldn’t let him go, not now, not before—

“Wait. Please.”  
  
“Vhe—”

"In Montsimmard I saw a village torn asunder by elves with painted faces."

The floorboards creaked. Solas took a step towards her. 

Then another.

"Above the nearby forest, a sheet of smoke and fire blanketed the air. An elf outran the smell and taste of burning, a stolen human baby cradled to her chest."

Evelyn reached into the dark again.

Solas' tunic was rough. They folded under her fingertips, flattening against his skin.

He was warm.


	18. From One Hero to Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whee! A little bit of a blast from the past! <3

It was late afternoon. The sun was setting quickly. Evelyn marched across the Seeker’s courtyard, peeling off her thin leather glove with her teeth. 

The area was surprisingly desolate. Where there were usually guards, there were empty spaces, empty stone seats. Evelyn’s only company were the sculptures of Chantry heroes. They watched her as she approached, peering down from tall niches, their empathetic expressions concealed by thick shadows.

The Inquisitor was welcomed at the door by one of Leliana’s men—a young boy in a tattered cowl with a distinct Orlesian lilt. A mess of auburn curls covered his brow and concealed the colour of his eyes. They bounced as he fell in step with her.  
  
“Inquisitor. Leliana’s been eagerly awaiting your return. ”  
  
“Then why hasn’t she come instead?” she asked, folding her glove into the cord of her trousers.  
  
“She’s in a meeting. A visitor from Ferelden arrived not two hours ago.”

When Evelyn draws a blank, he hands over a note. She can’t help but laugh. “My life seems to revolve around the written word.” 

“Ser?”

“Nevermind. They’re in the War Room, I assume?” 

“Yes, Inquisitor.” 

She dismissed him with a weak smile and headed towards the stairwell. A smattering of guards and Inquisition members greeted her as she passed. Others watched on with anxious faces, lips strained with unasked questions. It was unusual to see them so riled up. She pushed her concern to the back of her mind and focused on the letter. 

_Leliana,_

_It’s nice to hear from you—brings back memories. Sort of. Less Darkspawn, which is a plus I suppose?_

_Your request is unusual to say the least (and I understand there’s no point in me asking why ) but I’ve had some of my men investigate. The Alienage is quiet, which has raised my suspicion. I’ve doubled the guard and am looking to infiltrate with a few key personnel of my own. I make no promises here: these city elves are cunning and not welcoming to outsiders. We experienced that first hand during the Blight. Nevertheless, if I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know._

_As for the Grand Enchanter’s plea, I would like you to know I was against the whole thing. Madam Vivienne, however, is a persistent woman, and once she caught wind of it, there was no dissuading her._

_As I friend, please... whatever this thing Vivienne and your Inquisitor needs help with, keep her safe. No Deep Roads or High Dragons, or swooping hags. I’d like her back in one piece. Expect her arrival in a few weeks._

_P.S: Speaking of hags, have you heard any whispers about Morrigan lately?_

_Alistair._

  
  
At the bottom of the parchment was a series of stick figures featuring a winged Morrigan flying over what she assumed was a self-portrait of the king.  
  
Evelyn folded the note inside her pocket and quickened the pace. 

The corridor leading to the War Room was empty, the torches unlit. What remaining daylight was left filtered through small portholes in the stone. Cullen leaned beside the doorway, head cocked, arms folded. She could tell he was trying to look nonchalant, but his puckered lips and tight jaw spoke volumes of his state of mind. He was agitated, in a way she had seldom seen before.

He staggered as she approached.

“Cullen, why aren’t you inside with Leliana?”  
  
He avoided her gaze and stepped away. “Not invited, apparently.”  
  
“Do you know—”  
  
“You should see for yourself,” he said.  
  
Evelyn swallowed. His tone stung, but she had already considered the potential fallout. She had left without a word, leaving on less than ideal terms. It was only natural—so she told herself.

The War Room was warm. A fresh fire burned in the hearth. Leliana lent over the mantle, her lips pulled into the remnants of a laugh. When Evelyn entered, whatever words were spoken dwindled into a low hum.  
  
“Inquisitor. I wasn’t expecting you for at least another few days. I see Gaspard’s men found you quickly.  
  
She gestures to the woman in front of her, a short red-head dressed in simple travelling clothes faded with age. The ivory staff on her back wobbled in its harness as she turned. 

“Inquisitor,” the Hero of Ferelden purrs. “Vivienne tells me you’re in need of magely advice.” 


	19. Dissent

Lucretia Amell was not what Evelyn expected. She was petite for a human, almost elven, with narrow hips and the small hands of a book keep. 

“A pleasure,” the Inquisitor said, unable to disguise the surprise and awe in her voice. 

The Hero of Ferelden smiled. Her teeth were even, white, small—like tiny pearls set in a mouth that worked hard not to appear cruel. Her thin lips and sharp Cupid’s bow were naturally disposed to smirking. In a way, she reminded her of Morrigan. 

“Vivienne speaks highly of you and your abilities. If I can be frank, I am _surprised—_ I was expecting,” she faltered, her almond eyes darting from Evelyn’s face to feet. 

“A human?”

“A mage,” she corrected with a look. “Given the _nature_ of the issue.”

Behind her, Leliana stiffened, hair dusting over her shoulders in an irritable flick. 

The visitor seemed to sense her discomfort. “I… think I should give you and Leliana some time to discuss the next steps.” She glanced over at the Spymaster and shot her a sympathetic smile. “I’ll be in the courtyard.”

They stood in silence for what felt like an age, motionless long after Lucretia had left. Leliana watched the fire, fingers curled elegantly over her pursed lips. Her eyes were narrowed. Focused. 

“Has the Hero of Ferelden said much?” Evelyn asked. She took her usual seat at the war table.

She felt young; vulnerable. It reminded her of troubled youth, being sat down by the aravels of her home to be scolded by their Keeper for neglecting her studies. Leliana was every inch Keeper Deshanna; cool, composed, and frighteningly still.

“No,” she said. “Lucretia would not say much, only what was already stated in Alistair’s letter.” When her blue eyes found hers, Evelyn was surprised by the depth of their sadness and concern. “What is going on, Inquisitor?”

Evelyn did not know how to start, but tried her best, stumbling through a recap of her dreams after the Crossroads, the steady stream of consciousness that grew from feelings and impressions into memories and projections of the Fade. She spoke at length on Haven and Skyhold, of seeing the world before the veil; of the attack of red lyrium dragon; the nameless spirits of the Emerald Graves. Leliana listened in silence, her occasional blinks the only things differentiating her from a statue. When Evelyn neared the end of her story, her Spymaster grumbled and ironed the crease in her forehead with her fingertips. 

“And for this Alistair has sent the Hero of Ferelden? For _pleasant_ dreams of the past?” 

Evelyn swallowed. “This is unheard of for someone with no magical talent to be able to do, Leliana.” She thought back to Solas’ warning, pictured his scowl; felt the cold hand of Desire on her skin, its purr in her ear. “It is not safe.”

“If it is not safe, why was I not informed?”

“I did not think it worthy of mention. After Vivienne—“

“Vivienne is no longer part of the Inquisition,” Leliana interrupted, her dry Orlesian accent twisting the syllables of each word into a song. “I am. Cullen is. Lace, and the men that follow you are. _We_ are the ones you should have consulted.” The bard sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. 

“Leliana—“

“Did you learn nothing from the Exalted Council? From how perilous our position is? Corruption, deceit, duplicity—there are a number of dangers _without_ Solas’ interference. For the figurehead of our company to reveal that she is now _hiding_ some strange power from her advisers is…” Thin fingers curled in a gesture of disbelief. 

“This is why Vivienne is helping—why the Hero of Ferelden is here,” Evelyn said, torn between anguish and anger. “To _help_ understand whatever is happening, before it becomes an issue.”

“It is too late for that, Inquisitor. It became an issue the moment you decided to keep this from us.”

* * *

The courtyard was dark when Evelyn escaped the confines of the Seeker’s fortress. 

Given the hour, she expected most of their forces to be in the dining hall, shoulder to shoulder on long wooden benches while they spooned hot gruel and broke bread. To her surprise, a few stragglers remained outside, huddled together under lit torches, their muted conversations mingling into a low drone. They took turns glancing nervously towards the center fountain, at the two figures sat on a marble bench at the edge of the water.

She did not expect to find Cullen here, to see his brilliant smirk, or hear his sudden bark of laughter. Lucretia Amell tittered girlishly and placed a hand on the curve of his thigh. Neither of them noticed her approach until she cleared her throat with a cough. 

“Inquisitor,” Lucretia purred, eyes drawn lazily from Cullen to observe her. The Commander did nothing and said less, preferring to stare at the formless blades of grass beneath their feet. 

“Apologies for interrupting, I hope I am not intruding.” She had not meant to sound as icy as she did, but the sight of their happiness—in light of the hour long bollocking she had received—made it difficult to posture. 

“Of course not. I happened to find Cullen on my way out. We were just reminiscing about old times.” The mage did not give Evelyn time to dwell on the statement. “I hope Leliana was not too hard on you?”

“You know Leliana better than I do—she’s always up for a good lecture,” she replied, pricked by another wave of inadequacy. If Lucretia picked up on it, she did not let it show. 

“She wants what’s best, I’m sure. It probably didn’t help that I was mute on the subject of Vivienne’s letter.” 

“Your discretion is appreciated.” 

Evelyn watched Cullen’s face twist in confusion. Despite his curiosity, he remained silent. When it stretched into an uneasy pause, the Hero motioned to leave. 

“I was hoping we could catch up to discuss the issue, Inquisitor, however, given the hour it might be best to rest and reconvene tomorrow.” 

“Going in so soon?” Cullen asked, voice hoarse from disuse. Evelyn noticed with some ire that he furrowed his brows like a disappointed twelve year old. 

“We’ll continue our catch-up in the afternoon. Breakfast in town? You can give me a tour of Val Royeaux.”

Lucretia squeezed her shoulder as she passed and fixed her with another sympathetic look before marching across the courtyard. The eyes of the Inquisition followed her with intrigue, wonder, and amazement. Evelyn was heartbroken to see that her steadfast Commander watched her leave with the same awe as their young recruits. 

It’s what fueled her resolve to leave, to turn on her heels without a word; to ignore his weak summons as she retreated back into the fortress. 


End file.
